New York City Stores Lack A Boyfriend Seat
October 15, 2007
When I was a kid, my mother sometimes dragged me to clothing and department stores at the mall. She dragged my brother by a rope.
I remember being less than excited about this, but I remember also eventually abandoning whatever tantrum I had on the roll-out and settling for ice cream promises and the comfort of a nearby chair – situated in some corner of whatever store we were at when said tantrum started. I had always assumed the chairs were for kids like me, kids who needed a place to sit and pout, or sit and whine, while we waited for The Ice Cream Dream to come true.
Later in life (today) I realized that those chairs weren’t really put there for kids. Sure, they worked for kids. A little butt is still a butt. Although a clothing rack is not a place for taking off your harness and pants (oh brother!)
The point is that I never really realized until today (maybe because I had been a bachelor ((biter-of-the lady-eyes)) for so long, until recently) what those chairs in clothing or department stores really represented: a conciliatory gesture, made on the part of the store, towards your everyday, tag-along boyfriend.
I should point out, before she reads it and bites my ears, that girlfriend of ibiteyoureyes is very kind and fair when it comes to shopping. I know she fights the urge to “do those extra three laps” when I am with her. And I appreciate it. The half an hour or so of browsing that I end up having to wait through if and when we shop is absolutely nothing compared to what other women (like cousin of ibiteyoureyes!) can do to a man and his patience in a mall, store, or shopping center.
Shopping, period (the end!), makes me a dizzy, depressed ibiteyoureyes. And today I discovered yet another way in which New York City has managed to exaggerate and exemplify such a societal problem as this.
(You’d think, by now, that someone around here would have hired me to correct the local economy and culture – before graciously allowing me to move onto the country and world at large. But no. No one has given me the political power and/or bulldozers that I would need to do this. If only I could fly, and convince Caligula to give me financial backing.)
Anyway, until this happens, I can’t enact change. So due to the speeds at which this old metropolis spins, and due to the lack of “espacio” so epitomized by midtown Manhattan in particular, there just won’t ever be enough room in a New York clothing stores for even one Boyfriend Seat* – though one would be enough. Bored and/or disgruntled boyfriends could wage wars for the right to sit in it, and thus would have something to do. Men like wars!
Hand to the story at back. Faced with no alternative, I wandered…pretending to be interested in looking at woman’s clothing. And then I got tired of wandering. So I followed girlfriend of ibiteyoureyes. But that is hard to do (quick like Marion) and, also, it hurts my manliness. So I fell back to wandering. And then I thought (with naivety!) that maybe I could find a place where I could either lean against a wall, or squat. On my haunches. Saying things like, “Hmm…yes. Looks like rain.”
But there is no where to lean, or squat, or stand, in a midtown Manhattan clothing store. At least not the stores that we visited. Because in New York – even if you are home alone in your apartment – you are always in someone’s way. And today, at those stores, that someone was a woman. And then another woman. And then another. And they are women of New York, so life is a hurry. And everything is expensive, so they need sales, and they need them more than ever.
Were those last few lines a little sexist? No. Stewie Griffin is a little sexist. They are only a little piece of the truth, and if someone wants to point the finger at me, well, I say point (click! buy! buy more! breed! hand down that debt! die!).
I don’t buy clothes. I haven’t for a long time.
I let them rot, right over my body. My mother sends more every Christmas. Girlfriend of ibiteyoureyes will be the first to tell you, my wardrobe is pathetic, plain, and getting worse by the day. But it’s mine. It’s me.
And if there’s one thing you can do on the Internet, seeking justification for both your existence and your excuses (viewing porn) is that thing.
* Exception: At The Gap, where the butt-part of one of these pairs of pants would technically count as a new definition for my silly, made-up phrase – which, admittedly, was probably inspired by the silly pants themselves.