I Went To The Jimmy Choo Sample Sale In NYC
I laughed, I cried, I panic-hoarded heels, and I found my wedding shoes.
In New York City, the dedicated shoppers who investigate these sales are members of an elite squad, known as the People With A Flexible Schedule. These are their stories.
[dun, dun]
Monday, Oct. 21 at 8:52am:
“Ooooooh!!”
An enthusastic streak of O’s shot across my inbox, punctuated by a double exclamation point; a special rarity in correspondences from my mother. The drawn-out word needed no additional commentary, as it was attached to a Time Out New York email, now forwarded to my sister and me: Subject: Fwd: Jimmy Choo sample sale October 22-25.
The term ”sample sale,” at least for me, conjures up visions of stressed-out shoppers competing for the same sought-after pieces — usually, at discounted prices designed to inspire impulse purchases. But as you may remember from my initial post about leaving my full-time role and starting a Substack, I had a wedding to plan, and by extension, a corresponding wardrobe to build. Who was I to turn down a deal, particularly when I was still without shoes for the Big Day™?
My anxiety and interest both piqued, I scrolled down.
A spacious ballroom filled the screen, its chandeliered ceilings casting hallowed light across neat little rows of designer shoes. The aisles were devoid of people, ensuring a peaceful — dare I say, downright serene — appearance. The overall effect? A very manageable shopping environment. I reminded myself that my sample sale would absolutely have people and (as a result of this essential variable) would possess a distinctly different vibe. As if it heard my protests, the subhead further taunted me, “…up to 70% off shoes…”
I checked the dates again. The sale started at 10am the very next day. Could I make it? Yes. Did I have writing to do? Also, yes. Wasn’t my current life season all about figuring things out, embracing the unknown, and saying “yes” to spontaneous adventures? YES.
I shot a quick text to our group chat.
Tuesday, Oct. 22 at 8:50am
I crossed 6th Avenue and headed down 18th Street, spotting a subdued line of stylish folks outside Telegraphe Cafe. I nervously parked myself at the end, hoping I was in the right place, and found myself reassured by the Burberry-emblazoned crossbody — a homing beacon for Fashion Enthusiasts everywhere — hanging off someone’s shoulder in front of me.
The Burberry-wearer turned around, flipping their shampoo-commercial shiny hair as they did so, and we engaged in brief (but friendly) speculation over how long we would be waiting. They guessed one hour. I admitted I had no idea, but said I couldn’t wait longer than three hours. They laughed, “Oh honey, even two hours is too long.” I immediately recalibrated my standards, remembering when I waited overnight in the dead of winter for SNL tickets years earlier. Maybe waiting in hyped-up NYC lines had come a long way since then. (Kidding.)
9:11am
Two workers fluttered down the line, eagerly offering coffee and water. I considered the pros and cons of dying of thirst versus having to use the bathroom, and accepted the water. After drinking what I believed to be a ‘safe’ amount, someone ran up to us asking if we were waiting for The Row. “This is Jimmy Choo,” three of us said in unison, and they scurried away.
9:17am
Our line pushes forward, and I spot a second line just ahead with far fewer people in it. At first glance, the outfits read nondescript, but upon closer inspection, several bare the hallmarks of a different kind of Fashion Enthusiast: dark baggy trousers and tailored jeans, chunky logo-less knits, mary-janes, supple leather tote bags in deep, yet practical shapes, all blending into a sea of beige, gray, and black. The Row people had entered the sample sale chat.
9:29am
I brought a book to read, but just like at home, I pull out my phone and enter a TikTok hole for the next 15 minutes.
9:46am
The Jimmy Choo line surges forward, and miracle upon miracles, it looks like I am entering the building early!
I follow my linemate up a flight of white industrial stairs, where an exasperated-looking security guard tells me I need to check my coat (a thin cropped jacket that would disguise shoes about as effectively as my bob). But if this is the only concession, I figure, I’m getting off easy. No time limit? No product limit? You don’t want me to sign over my first-born child? Are you sure? Okay, then.
Collecting my ticket, I survey the room. Track lighting glows brightly above, instead of ritzy chandeliers. But all in all, the urgency I expected to see is noticeably… absent. Shoppers calmly mill about, and there are even workers helping find specific sizes and styles.
I snap a pic of the price guide to ensure I don’t fall in love with something outside my budget. (Instantly, I mentally erase all boots from my line of vision.)
9:50am
I scan the size 37 section for shades of cobalt, baby blue, and turquoise, knowing I wanted my ‘something blue’ to be my shoes. (Not one to be close-minded, I also try on every white, off-white, and nude heel sporting a panel of lace, smattering of pearls, or crystal-encrusted strap.) My heart is beating unnaturally fast, as if I’m playing a high-pressure game of iSpy, racing against the clock.
Are you my wedding shoes? I ask each pair, oscillating between snapping up stilettos and frantically sending terrible mirror pics to the group chat. I’m realizing each pair feels slightly tighter than it should, and Goldie Locks my way into a new quest for size 37.5 shoes.
10:08am
I spot a ribbon of rich cobalt-blue peeking out from a lower row. Could it be? I reach forward, warily inspecting the plastic size-marked tag: 37.5!! I’m delighted to find shimmering rhinestones winking up at me from a jauntily-placed buckle on the strap.
I slip off my ballet flat and hobble over to a full-length mirror propped up against a wall.
Well, well, well! It appeared I could check ‘Wedding Shoes’ off the to-do list. Elated, I peered around the room, which was filling up now. If I had been so lucky this early, maybe there were more treasures waiting within the steadily devolving racks?
I picked my way around excited groups of shoppers camped out in front of the remaining mirror zones, ankle-deep in piles of Choos. I fish a pair of pink sling-backs with swirling metallic brocade off the rack, then slide my foot into an abandoned pair of studded tortoiseshell block-heel sandals. Both fit like supple, made-just-for-me gloves, and I weighed my consequences.
10:48am
After restlessly lapping the floor three more times, even checking out the sections in my mom’s and sister’s sizes for good measure and coming up empty (sorry, guys!), I breathlessly head toward the checkout line.
11:22am
A worker staples my receipt to the outside of a perfectly ordinary brown paper bag, and I step outside feeling like I’ve reached new heights.
Was it the fresh vantage point achieved from a certain 3.5 inch-heel, now safely tucked away in my bag? Or was it the thrill that comes from embarking on new adventures you talked yourself out of experiencing before?
Let’s find out together.
First of all congratulations on your engagement and also on finding the fabulous wedding shoes...and on sale!!! Yes that was the triple exclamation point. You are so talented! Please write a book. XO
They are great shoes.