Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Shopping Like the Wealthy Do

Greenwich Avenue. We have been acquainted for many a year. I used to greatly fear you on account of your Spence/Chapin exclusionary demographic. For years when devoted partner and I would walk down you, it wasn't so much that I was your only vaguely ethnic rambler, it was that I was your only brunette, and certainly your only size 12. But we have both changed, Greenwich Avenue.

A slightly more diverse crop of the top 2% earners have made its way to your shores, as well as a slightly less exclusive array of shops: I'm surprised you don't sport a Diesel store yet, but come on, Victoria's Secret is very downmarket...

But now I have an approved zip code. You are my Main Street. I have even purchased a $9 headband at your yoga store (funny aside: as we're getting ready for bed Saturday night, sharing a bathroom for among the first times since childhood, The Boy looks at my Lulu Lemon headband and remarks that he has the same one, albeit not in purple, for his runs - teehee, my brother and I have the same headbands). When you see me coming, you do not consult your JDL-approved handbook entitled, "Dealing With Others: A Manual." Instead, you kind of treat me like I belong. Like my ill-gotten gains are just as good as anyone else's. And I must admit...

I like shopping on you.

Your stores, they are not crowded (though perhaps on Sunday, I wouldn't know, devoted partner and I spend all our Sundays lounging in bed, eating freshly baked Viennoiserie and having super-passionate lovemaking sessions that last hours) with either people or merchandise (ok, so perhaps your definition of lounging/Viennoiserie/lovemaking doesn't include Home Depot, Nintendo, and organic baked empanadas - your loss). Your salespeople are available without inspiring claustrophobia. Over the past few months, and more relevantly, over the past two weeks, I have entered your stores on a number of occasions and found myself almost enjoying the shopping experience. And I'm a person who thinks the internet is the best thing ever because it permits me to passively shop. In my underwear. At 4:00am.

Now I'm sure as I make my way down your Walk of Conspicuous Consumption, I will not always be thusly enamoured, but of all the surprises this move has held, your accessibility, nay, your inviting-ness, has surely been among the greatest.

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