It’s Sunday: Not a day of rest for most New Yorkers.
Shops are open, tempting the five boroughs out of their New York Times habitual haze to join the masses for an afternoon walkabout in NYC. Even a leisurely afternoon brunch can’t keep New Yorkers from curiously sneaking into a few department stores or running those last minute errands, quelling Sunday anxieties as Monday morning’s reality begins to set in.
Of course, a way out of this routine is Sunday Funday, which entails toiling the day away at said brunches, followed by a stroll and visit with the next barkeep to imbibe whilst watching the game, succeeded by dinner at yet the next watering hole of choice. And there’s always the suburban residents I’ve witnessed descending on the Meatpacking District readied for a boozy techno-music infused afternoon (you know who you are.) Good. Congratulations. Everyone’s accomplished cramming it all in.
Approaching the second floor shoe department at Bloomingdales is a sight to behold when I decide to pop in to peruse. Dedicated husbands and boyfriends surveying the landscape of shoes, partaking in the selection of a sexy stiletto for their mates, a loving gesture that tells me this isn’t about the “points system” of each partner vying for a “you owe me one.” Her man is doing this gratis because he loves her and because he relishes in watching her light up when she finds the perfect Prada.
However: Here’s what never fails to amaze me. There he is, snoozing on 2, tuckered out from treading on terrazzo. But, he knows he must. Was he naughty, in a bad way, that previous week? Is this the small price to pay in trade for his upcoming golf tourney?
I’m willing to bet it’s an international epidemic, whether these guys have heavy lids at Harvey Nichols, are barely alert at Brown Thomas, dragging their heels at David Jones, or nodding off at Nordstrom. Be honest now. How much time did your guy actually spend in menswear? I can’t help it. I just feel badly. For goodness' sake, these snoozers need a diversion from designer shoes.
Unless your man has a serious foot fetish, let him go to the pub. Yes, let him go. Be free! You know that dipping your toe into that enclave where Badgley, Giuseppe and Chloé reside means an hour sucked from his time with Colt, Eli, Wayne, and Hawk. Unless he truly wants to nap upright, let him enjoy more productive activities with his Sunday, and I don’t mean viewing his heroes through the tiny screen on his smartphone. That doesn’t count.
Men, feel free to jump in and declare you don’t mind the nap, and perhaps this works for both of you, but I’m guessing that you’d bolt down those escalator stairs, two steps at a time, if your significant female other gave you a “get out of Bloomie’s free” pass from visiting with Mr. Choo, Ms. Spade, and my personal friend, Mr. Weitzman.
I reckon Bloomingdale’s and the like should offer the voyeuristic opportunity for “Footy n’ Shoes,” flat-screened Sunday football enjoyment for him, muted naturally, doubling the metatarsal delight time for her. If our man’s opinion matters so much on the Gucci’s he’ll see us hobble in as a festive Saturday night draws to a close, then let’s have everyone enjoy the experience. Sporting events keep people around, and that makes for a happy husband, and more time for you to try on Tory and Marc for size . . . and more credit card swipes for your department store of choice. A win-win!