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IMAGINE LIVING your entire life in a monastery on a mountain top in Tibet. You have a bed, a small table and some sort of stove for cooking. You eat, sleep, dream, exercise, have aches and pains and wonder about the nature of existence, but you have no idea what Bloomingdale’s is. That must be nice.
I try to approximate that life on the days when my husband is away, which are numerous, and when I don’t have any appointments with anyone, which are also numerous. If I don’t turn on the TV or look at my computer and if nobody ever calls, I can come close. But still, I remember Bloomingdale’s, back when it was a big deal. Their flagship store on Lexington Avenue seemed like heaven to me during my New York City college days. Riding up there on the subway from my studio apartment in Soho — in those days it was called Little Italy — was a special occasion. So many pretty things to desire and someday attain!
I have more clothes than I need or even wear, and far too many dishes, especially considering we never have anyone for dinner, and way too many pairs of shoes. Besides all the sandals and loafers and high heels and clogs I have seven pairs of boots, despite having only two feet. I have earrings out the yin-yang, but I wear the same pair every day and have for the last four years. I have ten fingers but twice that number of gold and silver rings. If I walked around and put price tags on everything in my house, it could be another Bloomingdale’s.
At this point in my life I need nothing, except of course the direct experience of knowing I have everything I need. I wonder where they sell that.
— Andrea Rouda
Andrea Rouda blogs at The Daily Droid.
