Years ago, I was at a dinner party in New York and I was talking to Garrison Keillor’s then-wife, who was Danish. She told me how insulted she was that her new American friends invited her to go shopping. “Shopping? Why? Is there something wrong with the way I dress?”
Poor dear. This no-nonsense, sensible Scandinavian didn’t understand that, for some of us, shopping is a form of recreation – even of meditation. I wander through the racks, I feel the fabrics, I study the price tags, I reach Nirvana.
My husband, Benni, is also Danish and – just like the ex-Mrs. Keillor – he hates to shop. I pick up stuff for him when I can, but certain things need to be tried on. One day I saw an ad that the “Boston Legal” wardrobe department was getting rid of its inventory.
Benni loved that show, and I managed to drag him to the sale – with the promise that if he bought some clothes I would go with him to one of those brainless Hollywood comedies made for adolescent boys of all ages. It was a fair trade: I actually almost laughed at least twice at the movie, and Benni now proudly sports his Zegna suit ($120) and Hugo Boss jacket ($40). The jacket has a name written onto the label: James Spader!
