Nine Women, One Dress Read Online Free PDF Page B

nearly every kind of woman. But the ones who shout out for their men like this—usually some poor schlep standing around holding her purse—those women are the worst. It didn’t help that it was Sunday morning and I’d had one too many whiskey sours last night. She sounded like nails on a chalkboard.
    They’re a distinct breed, the men who choose to wait around for their girls to decide what to buy. It can take quite a while, as you can imagine. It was much more common when I started.
Taking the little woman to Bloomingdale’s to buy her fall wardrobe
. These gals would actually go around the store collecting their spoils, then hand them to the men to pay. I always half expected Gloria Steinem to come marching in yelling, “Get a job, ladies, pay for your own threads!” That’s how I felt, at least. I never wanted or needed a man to take care of me like that.
    It’s mostly the women who irritate me. I mean, first of all, what the hell are you screaming for? I’m right here. “Excuse me, ma’am, can you please ask my husband to come look at this dress on me?” That’s it—no need to scream like you’re calling in two eggs over easy with a side of sausage at a truck-stop diner. And seriously, what is it that this husband is going to say anyway? “That color looks putrid on you.” Nope. “You are squeezed into that dress like a Polish sausage.” No way. “You look beautiful.” Ding ding ding. That’s your answer, and you might as well be asking Ray Charles. There are exceptions, of course. There’s the cheapskate—he focuses on the price tag, making his judgment on that alone. I see this all the time. He rarely admits that his opinion is based on money, but once he sees the price it’s “I’ve seen you look better” or “I don’t like that at all.” Then there are the metrosexual/sexually ambiguous fellas; they say something brilliant and tactful, like “That neckline hits you in a funny place” or “It would be nice to see more of your beautiful legs.” Smart men. Not as smart as the men who stay home, of course, but they have a clue.
    Today, though, the schlep holding the purse was none of the above. His name was Arthur Winters, not AARRTTTIEEE, and he had been shopping with me since the old days, back when I started in accessories. He came in to buy a gift for his wife, not the trollop screaming at him from the dressing room. I remember it well. He was aces, Arthur Winters, the handsome, kindhearted type that still-single girls like me were holding out for. He introduced himself and said, “I’m shopping for a gift for my wife’s birthday. She always says she likes my gifts, and she always wears them, but I think she’s just being kind. I want her to open every gift she ever gets from me with real joy, but I’m afraid I have little taste and less money.” Together we found the perfect gift. It was a black and brown houndstooth Oleg Cassini silk scarf. I said it was “timeless and beautiful.” He said, “Just like my Marilyn!” I gave him my card, and over the years, as his bank account grew and his browsing time dwindled, he began calling me on the phone to discuss his gift selection. Eventually his wife found my worn card in his wallet and came in. It didn’t seem like she was checking me out in a crazy-jealous-wife way, more out of curiosity.
    I was quite the looker back in the day. People compared me to Ava Gardner. Now that the in look is bordering on anorexic, the young me wouldn’t have turned many heads, but back then women like me with full figures were in vogue. It was nice coming of age feeling good about my body and myself. It seems that the tide is changing lately for the better, with all these body-image campaigns and rounder young actresses proudly flaunting their stuff. I must say I’m happy about that. Breaks a saleswoman’s heart to hear, “Do I look fat in this?” all day long.
    I remember that Arthur’s wife bought a few things that day, and when she paid