Marc Jacobs

My god, I admit it—with shame—I was one of those idiots who stood outside the Marc Jacobs Stuff store. I’m not sure why I went. I was curious. I was in the neighborhood. I saw a friend on the street while on my way, but I didn’t call his name. If I did, I’d have to explain where I was going. When I arrived, the line didn’t seem horrendous, so I took my place and hung my head. I wished I had worn sunglasses. I couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the passersby who stood on the opposite corner to take pictures of this retail specter. I had read tales of the $5 goods and thought maybe there was some adorable something that I could take home as stocking stuffers.

In all, I waited about forty minutes. Upon entering, I—sort of—understand why Marc Jacobs initiates this doorman-line process. The shop is tiny, but it does ring ridiculous, just like the shenanigans outside of the Abercrombie & Fitch on Fifth Avenue. Really, is a store so worth it?

There were graphic tees. Eh. Plastic cocktail rings. No way. Wallets and billfolds, kind of nice, but no thanks. Key rings for five bucks. Don’t need ’em. The canvas bags in an assortment of tropical colors were cute but not needed. I didn’t like the MJ initials printed on the little lipstick cases and coin purses—too reminiscent of Michael. There was a nice black patent leather wallet wristelet, but I think I liked it more than my mom or sister would. So I left, empty-handed. As the bouncer opened the door, he gave me a little smirk of surprise, as if he couldn’t believe I didn’t buy anything.