Apparently, it's that time of year again, The Barney's Warehouse Sale. It's going on until March 2nd.
I used to pay attention to these things. Over the years, I've become *snort* a jaded New Yorker. I know too much.
I written here before that 'sale' in the phrase 'Barney's Sale' does not mean 'sale'. It means 'brainwashing', in the way that 'three-fifty for a pair of hot pants' becomes acceptable after seeing racks upon racks of overpriced clothing. And not just clothing, but generally pretty bland clothing.
I'm over it - the crowds, the lines, the half-dressed women battling over designer t-shirts. (There are no changing rooms, so women disrobe wherever they can find a mirror).
Mark laughs when we pass nightclubs with queues behind velvet ropes. We both pass on opening nights for movies, or movies at all, for that matter. It's a rare occasion that we brave the crowds, high prices, lines, sold out shows and cellphone interruptions to see a movie on the big screen.
It's ironic because before I moved here, I didn't buy into the fashion thing. I was down to earth. I wondered why people lived in New York at all, paying the rent they did, competing for everything from jobs to apartments to significant others.
But then I moved here after graduate school and something changed. I wanted to be where the party was. I wanted to see what the hooplah was about. Now that I know, I'm over it. My trajectory was akin to poor Andrea in 'The Devil Wears Prada', only not so glamorous.
It's a matter of values. I will stand in line for a New Yorker Magazine-sponsored night with David Byrne playing the acoustic guitar and reflecting on his years as a performer. I will stand in line for an on-stage interview and banjo performance with Steve Martin. Once-in-a-lifetime moments, yes. Movies and clothes, no.
I guess I'm either growing up, or growing old. I don't know which.