Steve Maddening Day

Today started out great. I woke feeling well rested. My left lumbar pain wasn't debilitating. My son was giggling and smiling and eating organic apples and bananas. A day free of conference calls, doctors appointments and deadlines, I was looking forward to a morning and afternoon and evening of great accomplishments, including cleaning out my closet. I made great strides with the closet this morning and then decided to take a break to go shopping for Mike's costume for his Friday performance and for a new pair of boots. I stopped by the Steve Madden store in Union Square yesterday while running errands and saw a pair of high boots that were actually high enough. Most boots and pants are designed for short women, or those who are 5'5" and shorter, but this pair would reach the knees, even on an amazon. Perfect, except they didn't have them in my size. Size 10 shoes sell out quickly, especially boots designed with tall girls in mind. The sales associate called the SoHo store and said they would hold them for me. While searching for Daddy's costume, I figured Michael Alexander and I could make a quick stop at the SoHo store. I lived in the central Village, on the cusp of SoHo, for more than a decade before moving to Union Square and always loved wandering Broadway, whether I was shopping or just window shopping. Things have changed. SoHo, or at least Broadway, has always attracted tourists along with the beautiful people, or natives, but it's never been this ugly, I'm sure. It used to be mostly fashionable European tourists, who were obvious only because of their maps and guide books. But these days the corn-fed middle Americans who rarely stray from Times Square are clogging the sidewalks. I should have run away immediately when I saw every Abercrombie teen, tween and her sister with their uptight mothers trying on pair after pair of boots and hooker heels. But I thought I could quickly get the pair saved for me, try them on and buy them if they fit. Ha! After 20 minutes, a sales associate informed me the boots weren't on hold, so I showed her the pair. 15 minutes later, I got the pair. As I turned away (for a few seconds at best) from the stroller, which was secured with the break and my foot under the front tire so I'd know if anyone tried to touch it, someone snagged my iPhone and ran off. I didn't see him, but a lovely young Russian woman did and agreed to stay and give the cops a description. She and her friend were an exception to the typical crowd at a Steve Madden store on weekdays, these days. Needless to say, I didn't get the boots, which had a broken zipper. When I asked to use the phone to call the cops, the store manager said to me, "I don't know why you're mad at me. It's not my fault," and handed me a photocopy of an NYPD-issued statement about how the store isn't responsible for stolen stuff. I was so shaken, I didn't even respond. He's bitter from dealing with droves of obnoxious tourists who will never return, and treats everyone as if they shop at Wal-Mart, the ultimate sin against democracy. (More on that another time.) It took another 40 minutes for the cop to come. The Russian woman and her friend waited the whole time. For every thief, there are two human beings. That was about the only thing that kept me from weeping and losing all faith in humanity. I know it's just an iPhone. I know I am lucky he didn't take my Michael Kors wallet with my credit cards, or my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, or my most-precious Marc Jacobs bag. And I am very thankful he didn't harm my son, who was oblivious to the incident, smiling as I held him tight, rattled by the manager's callous indifference and offended that he treated me like one of those people. But still, I am shaken and stirred and sad. What made me sad was my reaction, what I felt, but didn't articulate. This petty crime brought out my worse-than-petty elitist attitude. "Well, what can you can you expect from a low-end store like Steve Madden where all these tourists and tweens shop?" I blamed myself a little for even being there, for making myself a potential target just by shopping with so many victims-to-be. I am savvy. I am a city person. I am strong. This guy stole more than my phone. He robbed me of a day's ambitions (I should have had the closet immaculate, the laundry in the dryers and dinner prepped by now); he disrupted my whole week's schedule (a work-from-home mom only has so many hours a day to get things done); and he made me feel ... ugh ... so.hard.to.say.it ... helpless. I couldn't run out after him. I have a son to watch and care for. That is my priority. Period. He knew that. The short (shorter than me), awkward and dumpy thief (based on the 5'9" witness' description), was no adversary for me. I could take him. He couldn't outrun me. He couldn't escape from my headlock, withstand my pounding. He couldn't look me in the eye and not shudder with fear. But he got away. And it's because I am a mom, and he knows I would never look away from my son long enough to let anything happen to him. Just long enough for some wimpy thief to snatch my phone. Replacing the phone is a costly hassle that's going to set me back even further this week. That sucks. But what really sucks is how I feel about society right now. How I feel about stores that cater to tourists and allow such thieves to lurk and blend in with the low-rent crowd. "If were shopping at Prada across the street," I thought to myself, "this wouldn't happen because the store associates and managers would notice this guy and I wouldn't be lost in a sea of Walmartians." I'll never go back to a Steve Madden store. The shoes are crappy anyway. And I'll be watching my belongings like a hawk, suspecting every suspicious-looking (whatever that means, another judgment) person when I do return to Broadway. The back pain's back and I am headed back to conquer the closet, with a lot less enthusiasm. Guess I won't be tossing my old boots. They have a broken zipper, just like the new ones at Steve Madden.