One of the most difficult things about living in NYC is choosing. There is more to do than there is woman to do it--a problem magnified during FNO, or "Fashion Night Out" for those of you who have not been exposed to the relentless hype. In only its second year it has become the super bowl of fashion--the object of which is for shoppers to score free cocktails and nail polish, and not let the opposing team (aka "stores") separate you from whatever cash you have left after buying the shoes that are making the balls of your feet feel like you've stepped on fire ants.
What seems a completely reasonable schedule on paper turns out to be possible only for those who are not easily distracted by naked men showering in a store window. The Tiffany diamond, on display for just this night, was also responsible for a complete disregard for getting to where they were dangling warm snacks and hot handbags. It turns out I actually do like the color yellow, but apparently only when it comes wrapped in 148 carats of sparkling goodness.
At the height of the evening, an impromptu dance broke out in Saks, as complete strangers came together to prove that a knock-out sound system and a killer club tune always trumps self-consciousness every time, even in a department store. I watched, swaying and doing that thing with my head that's a cross between nodding and craning to see the television. When the music ended, the only male in the group gave a small bow to the women and turned, stepping effortlessly onto the up escalator. I watched him go until he disappeared from sight. I will never see him again or, if I do, I won't know it. But, for that one night, we were all part of the same crazy music. And, as impossible as it may be to choose what to do in New York, I choose that, every time.
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