Today is a day I look forward to throughout the year, a day that takes nerves of steel and sinews of extreme sinuousity to negotiate successfully. . .
Today I go to Christmas shop at Century 21.
Century 21, as you doubtless know, is NYC's absolute best discount shopping. It's all the way down at the bottom of Manhattan, just near the closed World Trade Center subway stop. One must have eaten roundly of protein and carb before venturing in, one must have settled accounts with one's family and lawyers. . .one must carry a shiv.
Ok, that's going too far: Let's keep lawyers out of it.
The first time I went to Century 21 was when I came to NYC in the 90's, for graduate school. I was absolutely thrilled to be living in a small gleaming-floored studio on 118th and Amsterdam, which I'd furnished with one mattress, a mahogany side table, a tv that only received Public Television, and many many books. Naturally, I felt I needed to purchase a handbag.
For many years I'd heard about C 21 from my Aunt, who used to work at the Trade Towers before her office switched her to the City Hall building. She had presented me with absolutely wonderful chic quirky un-affordable clothes for Birthdays and Christmases. She would sit me down and tell me of the rude sales-girls, the heaving odorous crowds, the dressing rooms that you aren't allowed to use if you're trying on trousers. I listened saucer-eyed as she regaled how a pair of boots had been torn from her arms as she clutched them in line, just moments away from the cashier (who turned her head).
I needed to go to Century 21. Caught the train down, found the handbag section in the basement--thousands of bags. Thousands of them hanging from hooks and straps and rails. . .I put one after the other over my left arm, and mimicked scrabbling for keys in it, or seizing it by the strap to clock someone over the head before restoring it to its armpit holster. Finally, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror--red faced, hair in disarray. I decided that a pizza break was called for, and to leave the store, grab a slice and a vat of diet coke poured over a mountain of ice, and decide which bag to buy.
Five minutes of wandering in circles finally brought me to the front door, and with a sigh of relief I saw a Pizza shop outside. "Buy 2 slices, get soda free!" Ok, then. OK. I marched out the door--but suddenly could go no further.
An enormous hand had seized my arm.
And then another one grabbed my handbag. . .
As I looked into the serious faces glaring down at me (faces which themselves weren't unfamiliar with many many slices of pizza), I realized an important thing:
That wasn't my handbag.
I'd forgotten to put back the last bag I had tried on, which turned out to be so comfortable that it just rested from my shoulder unnoticed. And then I'd tried to walk out of the store.
The two security guards led me away from the door, when I decided to use the only tool in my arsenal. Not my innocence, obviously: My Mid-Western Accent. I opened my eyes as wide as they'd go, and did the same with my vowels. "Oh my Gahd, I am so sorry!! I didn't know it was there, I was just trying these cute bags on and then thaaaaght I'd go out for a slice. I am so sorry to bother you boys!" I sounded like Marge from Fargo--I looked like butter wouldn't melt.
And they were so dazed by contempt for my stupidity and my ear-shattering accent that they let me go, but gave me a warning not to shop there anymore that day. I left there vaguely thrilled by the drama of it all, and didn't return for 2 years.
But today I'm going back, Christmas list in hands and loins firmly girded--I'm going to take Century 21, then walk up Broadway slowly, stopping for a cup of tea and cake somewhere, and then buy jewelry chatchkas on Canal Street and/or lower Broadway. It's above freezing, the sky is blue, and I've still got a mid-western accent in my armory if it's needed.
Re. the BBP and the medical stuff: I have not heard from the doctor, but of course I have until Friday. Very stressful. Doubtless good for mental discipline, as drunks are just not good at dealing with anxiety (therefore the up-turned vodka bottles), and on top of it all I am a catastrophist. But that damn mammogram wasn't a reassuring experience--far from it. I am waiting to hear and hoping not to.
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