So there we were in Manhattan which is replete with museums, concert halls, theaters and historical sites. But no, she wanted to shop at Saks, Bloomingdales and Bergdorf-Goodman’s. For those of you not familiar with Bergdorfs, that’s a sister store to Neiman Marcus... New York style.

Bergdorfs also has a separate men’s store that is so expensive my wallet puckers at its entrance. I once was looking for an east coast raincoat, one that actually repels water, and found a little light weight jacket with a $2,700 price tag. I didn’t acquire it, but the memory lingers.

So we spent three days shopping and two hours viewing an exhibit at the Met. I have sat in more uncomfortable chairs in my life, but few tinged with so much fear. My wife, oblivious to all but the sales personnel’s guidance, was entranced by the cavalcade of outfits she was trying on to achieve the "right" look.

I spent my time trying to calculate the difference between the prices thrown around and the national debt of Peru. At some point in my life, I used to actually enjoy shopping, but this was overkill, in a big way. Sensing my reserve, the salesman in the designers section at Saks Fifth Avenue, less than tactfully suggested we might try another floor where they have ready-mades at presumably lesser costs, but we had already paid our respects to that floor.

Bloomingdale’s selection was somewhat disappointing...to my wife. I was happy to flee. We then revisited Bergdorfs where lighting struck. My wife loved the saleswoman. A lady who confided that her 30-something daughter was dating a man unacceptable to the family and she was fearful that they might announce their engagement. The suitor wasn’t frum enough, or bright enough or hard working enough. "You are so lucky your daughter has found the right one, " she moaned without the slightest notion of who our daughter and her fiancé were.

The plight of the woman’s family created a sort of kinship between customer and clerk for some unknown reason. Her ooing and ahing over my wife’s figure, didn’t hurt either as an expert seamstress was called to pin the gown here and there.

Now it was time for a "time out" to allow cooler heads to cogitate and weigh the pros and cons of the possible purchase. We fled to a new, ultra sheik café on another Bergdorf floor. Although it was offered, I refrained from having wine in the chartreuse and polished aluminum, post modern setting as we consumed a tiny, costly salad with biscotti-like bread and water.

It was determined that we would put the gown on hold and continue our search. The best way to proceed was to call New York cousin Edie, a consummate shopper who had married off both her children. Edie knows her way around Manhattan. She directed us to a boutique on East 76^th and Third Avenue, called "Vivaldi."

So next morning, bright and early, we had breakfast and decided to walk from East 52^nd and First Avenue to the shop. I thought perhaps tiring her out a bit might dull her shopper’s desire. No such thing. She loves to walk even in hot, humid conditions. The thought of an air conditioned boutique kept me alive as we pushed past New Yorkers who were oblivious to my pain.

Three sales people catered to my wife for the next two hours as she tried on at least 27 gowns. I must say they had a marvelous inventory. Mr. Jason did the pinning. That was a novelty. He was very knowledgeable and a smart, foreign born salesman. My wife found a beautiful gown, but was it the right one? She bought it as a possible fall back, but a final purchase it was. Lucky me. Now, she’ll have something for every occasion.

Bergdorfs obligingly mailed the pinned gown to our home so that the bride could pass judgment on the two outfits. My wife was happy. My daughter was happy. My bank account was not. And it was just the beginning of this great bankrupting adventure, for the father of the bride.

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