We might as well start, just to work the kinks out, by going dress shopping with my wife. Now, if you’re a man reading this, it’s a safe bet that you’re not thrilled about the prospect of going dress shopping with my wife, much less with your own wife, or going shopping for much of anything save for handheld electronics or a massive, high-definition video monitor. If you’re a man reading this, you’re probably a grab-and-go sort of chap when shopping by yourself, or a wait-and-whiner when shopping with your wife. Either way, you’re not likely to be wild about coming along on this foray. Grab-and-goers and wait-and-whiners have been subjected to serious academic scrutiny. I’ve looked at some of those studies but they haven’t told me much beyond what I already know. If you’re a typical grab-and-goer, your overriding mission is to get into and out of stores quickly. If you’re a wait-and-whiner, you’re crabby and impatient. You sit sullenly on a backless bench (if you can find a bench) while your partner picks over merchandise or tries things on, interminably. For now, hang in there. This first expedition won’t take very long. And, happily, you can come along without leaving the comfort of your La-Z-Boy recliner, with a Tommy Bahama rum-and-tonic to keep you chill….
We arrived at Bloomingdale’s only to the find the store so empty you could shoot off a cannon without hitting anybody, as my father used to say. Department stores are facing stiff challenges in an age when buyers prefer to shop in specialty stores, spectacular flagship stores, and big box discounters. Stepping off the escalator, I (we) followed my wife across the empty sales floor to a far wall, where a thicket of little black dresses clustered. They carried labels that meant nothing to me and not much more to Linda. Maybe some were private labels masquerading as “real” brands, maybe not, who knows any more? Department stores are increasingly hell-bent on rolling out their own labels because there’s more profit to be made by cutting out the big-name middlemen and women – Ralph, Liz, Donna, Ermenegildo, and the rest. At Macy’s and similar department stores, private-label sales have been increasing three-times faster than sales of tried-and-true brands. In 2007, Macy’s made Tommy Hilfiger a “strategic alliance” offer he couldn’t refuse. Hilfiger agreed to sell his signature line exclusively at Macy’s, in effect making Tommy a semi-private label. New and instantly recognizable private labels are launched routinely in today’s marketplace. Many carry the signatures of celebrity endorsers who have little hands-on involvement with the design of the apparel.
Linda began to work her way through the acres of chrome racks, rattling hangers as she went, lingering a bit longer near dresses on racks with little SALE signs attached. The signs promised a further reduction of 25 percent should one of the dresses make it through the decision-making process and wind up at the cash register. Keeping a safe distance, I watched as Linda sifted through the lot, feeling fabrics with a thumb and forefinger to determine whether they have what the trade calls a “good hand.” There was something a bit sad and melancholy about those dresses on sale: wallflowers at the orgy, they seemed to me. For whatever reason buyers had passed on them: bad lines, a bad “hand”, or perhaps a bad Bloomie’s buyer had simply bought too many of them. Out of compassion for the on-sale dresses, but also out of hope that we could save a few bucks, I secretly rooted for Linda to find a dress here worthy of marriage. A man for you, right? Fifteen minutes of hanger rattling yielded results: a quartet of little black dresses, all priced between $200 and $300. Linda handed them over to a sales woman who ushered us into a changing room, where we locked ourselves in.
For a lot of shoppers, particularly male shoppers, to get out of your clothes, try something on, take it off, try something else on, take it off, and so on until it’s time to put your own clothes back on, is one of life’s – that is, life in a consumer society’s – most dreaded rituals. Many women, too, have told me they hate trying on clothes, others, not so much. Linda doesn’t seem to mind, even with onlookers present. Those who dislike trying on clothes give several reasons for their dyspepsia. One: cramped, usually dingy, quarters. Two: you’re not really sure what looks good on you to begin with – does it make my ass look big? Three: the dressing room feels like an isolation booth, just you and your insecurities trapped in a small space. Four: you’re usually conflicted about spending money on whatever it is you’re trying on. Five: there’s all too often the annoying presence of the dreaded hoverer, a salesperson who keeps coming to the door, calling out questions that are presumably meant to be helpful but that in fact rush the decision-making process and apply even more pressure:
“How ya doin’ in there?”
“Everything OK in there?”
“Can I bring ya anything else in there?”
“How’s it goin’ in there?”
Linda shimmied into the first dress, zipped up the back, and with narrowed eyes took a good hard look in the mirror. Though no expert, I’d say the technical term for what she had on was “corseted”; that is, rather tight around the midsection, thus calculated to amplify what in my wife’s grandmother’s time was referred to as a “bosom”. After staring at her reflection for a minute or two, turning the left, turning right, checking out her legs, shoulders, and accentuated bosom, Linda rendered her verdict:
“I look like a dominatrix…”
