On the first day of Christmas, after several weeks of over-the-top, super-hyper-visual stimulation of the "ho-ho whorish" retail commercialization of the holidays, I am about to crack like poor Britney.
I started shaving all my hair off, but considering the temperatures have been in the 20s, it probably isn't a smart look.
Next, I started screaming at paparazzi only to find out they were just more of the millions of tourists who are shopping up a storm in New York City and simply trying to photograph the tree at Rockefeller Center. Their only wish was for me to get out of their cliche picture, not in it. Embarrassing? You bet.
After that, I tried to continue on with my shopping, and don't you forget I am THE PROFESSIONAL SHOPPER. Within moments of entering Barneys I had to return a $600 nourishing serum my true love (well actually one of my extravagant clients) gave to me as a Hanukkah gift. (Though I may be delusional I just don't think I need a three-digit cosmetic fix).
But, of course, a power-hungry Scrooge-ish manger decided even if I climbed a pear tree with a partridge or some turtledoves, and lords started leaping from my Prada knapsack, she wasn't going to refund this clearly unopened, overpriced and probably useless goop without a receipt. I felt like I was talking to Whitney Houston — "show me the receipt," she repeated. And so began the battle of retail, which will wage through the 12 days of Christmas.
Desperately in need of some love and retail therapy, I sauntered off to the third floor men's designer section. I scouted my target purchases, took aim and went for it … along with another customer, who had clearly been bitten by Jack Frost and not the Holy Spirit of Christmas. Before I knew what hit me, a lady from Long Island was wrestling me for a 60-percent off Alexander McQueen suit and a pair of Dior sneakers. When I realized the depths to which I had sunk, I made a hasty exit for the changing room and vamoosed from the store in a tizzy.
I realized that, like many of this year's tabloid stars, I had forgotten to finish getting dressed and sadly enough, no one even noticed. The cruelest of realities for a ubiquitous fame seeker was no scandalous headlines; all I ended up with was frostbite.
I continued on my not-so-festive holiday journey pining for a miracle on 34th Street, or some chestnuts roasting on an open fire, but instead I began to gag from the smoke from a downward draft as I purchased a bag of nasty nuts from a vendor who cursed at me in a foreign language for only having a $20 bill.
But suddenly, I realized I couldn't let this Grinch get me down. It was beginning to snow. Like the magic of angels, these little flakes began to fall and it was suddenly starting to look a lot like Christmas. I had been so mesmerized by the enchanting windows at Bloomingdale's, Bergdorf's and Saks 5th Avenue that I had lost all track of time. I was late for meeting a group of uber-festive fashionable friends.
Forty-five minutes later, the fluffy fun snow had turned to slush and I had been splashed by countless cabs with their off-duty signs on because, of course, it was 5 p.m., the time when all New York City cabbies switch shifts and getting a free one is about as easy as getting a Birkin bag.