Dollars and Scents

You have not lived until you've experienced the original Bloomingdales in New York during the holiday shopping season.

After fighting the traffic and dropping my mother and daughters off so I could find a parking spot on the street and not pay thirty dollars for our one hour stay, I made my way back on foot to the store. I took a deep breath as I waited for a break in the stream of shopping bag laden shoppers exiting and finally elbowed my way inside. Immediately I felt the danger signs of asphyxiation setting in as my nostrils absorbed air so saturated with men's cologne it seemed completely devoid of oxygen. It was all I could do to suppress my gag reflex and plunge ahead.

I escaped the men's department relatively unscathed, and scurried through the mushroom cloud of women's perfume to the safety of an escalator. As I ascended to the second floor, I filled my lungs with what seemed like pure mountain air compared to the pollution in the lobby. Stepping off, I jostled my way through the crowds and, out of breath and sweating, located the "dress up rooms" where my younger daughter was trying on designer jeans (which, to my mother's great shock, cost quite a bit more than twenty dollars).

The line of women waiting for a fitting room snaked its way out onto the sales floor, winding through overfilled racks of overpriced clothing. Hmm, tis the season of giving, yet all these people were trying things on themselves. Maybe they're all just buying for twin sisters. (I've never recovered from finding out the truth about the tooth fairy; I just can't handle the disappointment of knowing folks are out there during the holiday rush buying gifts for themselves.) I suppose it's difficult to resist trying on skin tight clothes that look so fabulous on the toothpick sized mannequins (all headless, I assume, so we cannot see the grimaces on their faces as they suck their guts in).

Within ten minutes I was hyperventilating. I lied, said it would take me a really long time to walk back to the car, and escaped through designer purses and fine jewelry, avoiding the stench of the exit closer to my parking spot. I strolled the six short blocks, barely noticing the constant din of honking horns and shouting New Yorkers and traffic cops' whistles. I inhaled the exhaust fumes, wondering why high end designers can't seem to come up with such a delightful and natural scent.

Maybe next year, at Bloomingdales.