Last night, I had an hour to kill between my arrival downtown and a dinner reservation, so I went to Macy's to poke around for a while.Underwear. Yes, underwear would be a great purchase tonight — I need more Calvin Klein hipsters. (Three for $30? Sure, that's a bargain. Ugh.)
I scanned the store map by the escalator. Underwear? Nope. Lingerie? Nope. Ah. "Intimates." Floor 5. I wound my way up five sets of escalators and was startled to see life-size, stuffed jungle animals staring me in the face when I hit the fifth floor. "Hello, Giraffe. You're not underwear."
No matter. Gazing past the escalators behind me, I caught a glimpse of scantily clad mannequins and knew I was on the right track. But as my snow boots squeaked as I trekked across the shiny marble floor, I was horrified to realize that the display of stuffed animals was no mere anachronism. I was walking through an entire department of baby gifts and clothes. On my way to the intimate apparel. …What?
After nearly simultaneously deciding that three for $30 was not, in fact, a bargain and realizing I was 20 minutes late for therapy, I dropped my merchandise and whipped around the racks (heh) looking for a way out. And completing the fucked-up circle, I saw that the final third of the fifth floor was… Maternity.
Well played, Macy's. Nicely done.