I may have to brave the bitches at the Boston Barney’s in order to get the cologne I want (and by bitches I mean the salesmen on the 2nd floor). To be fair, there’s at least one decent gentleman among the throng of skinny-jean-clad chicsters, but the rest look at me like I’m about to stuff half the store in my ridiculously small messenger bag.
This is, of course, nothing compared to the way I sometimes get looked at in Neiman Marcus, but that’s so over the top they know they’re being ridiculous. I think it’s a game between us at this point, with smiles uncontained on both sides.
Oddly enough, it’s the Saks 5th Avenue store in the Prudential Center where I’m treated the best in spite of whatever I happen to be wearing. No matter that I’ve only been able to purchase socks there in the last year (and those at 40 percent off).
It’s the principle of the whole thing that bothers me. I can dress up with the best of them, and walk into any of those stores carrying just as much attitude as I’m given, but why should I have to do that? When I go shopping in a pair of ratty sneakers, baggy shorts, and a comfy T-shirt with a hole or two in it, my American Express card has just as long a line of credit as it does when I’m decked out in an Armani suit, Gucci underwear, and Prada shoes.
I recognize the inherent paradox here. How can someone so seemingly obsessed with fashion and clothing possibly cry foul at judging a person based on appearance and dress? It’s probably because no matter what I’m wearing, I always try to be a decent human being. Underneath it all. And in spite of how much I poke fun at others or ridicule my co-workers for what they wear (you know who you are), I never really form my opinion of anyone based on their clothes.
Back to BlogEveryone suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues, and this is mine: I am one of the few honest people that I have ever known. – F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
