An ode to my Rachel Green moment at Bloomingdale’s.
Twenty years ago to this day, I started my first full-time job in fashion at the iconic Bloomgindale’s head office in New York, New York.
I was hired to be their first-ever Planning Assistant in the Buying Office. This meant that it was a brand new role in what was still an embryonic planning department, trying to establish itself within a buying office that had existed since 1861 with the likes of the legendary Fashion Director, Kal Ruttenstein, and super-star-CEO Mike Gould, who is still at the helm today after 22 years. No bigs. With blind ambition pouring from my ears, and naive youth hindering whatever good sense had not yet been eradicated by my first year living in NYC — I wasn’t daunted one bit.
The historic legacy aside, it turns out that Bloomgindale’s was tied to me personally, and in more ways than one.
About one year earlier I had visited New York with my father. We had gone there to check out F.I.T. where I ended up enrolling in their advanced Buying & Merchandising post-BA program a short few months later. On our sacred father-and-daughter trip, we experienced New York like we had never before, surviving things like getting lost in Harlem in my Dad’s baby-blue Mercedes, keeping night shifts at the Chelsea Hotel (it’s haunted, ok?), and trying to avoid areas where my father wasn’t propositioned by hookers (the hardest challenge of all three).
But my favorite memory by far is when my father took me shopping at Bloomingdale’s. I can’t really remember why we went there. It’s not like I needed anything. Or that I had ever gone shopping with my Dad. Like, ever. But we did go there, just as an American Prom cliché (sans Prom) where the Dad sits awkwardly outside the change room while the daughter tries on age-inappropriate dresses. Only I had (and still have) good taste, so all of the dresses were fairly appropriate, at least to my recollection. And so there we were in the dresses department, with me trying on dresses I wasn’t sure that I would ever wear in real life. And then there was my father buying me the dresses — two of them, to be exact. One was a Betsey Johnson, and the other a Dolce & Gabbana. To this day, they are both hanging in my closet.
Second, this was 1999. On Friends, Rachel Green was working at the Bloomingdale’s head office and, also like me, she was dating a goofy guy with gelled hair and a questionable fashion sense. Everyone wanted her hairstyle (guilty as charged — but it wasn’t the classic “Rachel-Do” anymore, it was the straightened one with the middle part — see below). Later that season she would go on to her next job at Ralph Lauren, cut off all of her hair and date a bunch of other guys. But for the purposes of my story: In September of 1999 when I got my job at Bloomingdale’s, everyone started calling me Rachel.
Hair + Bloomgindale’s weren’t the only things we had in common.
Remember how insecure and clueless Rachel felt during her first days at Bloomingdale’s? She had to work late all of the time, and kept screwing things up? Sending faxes to the wrong place and getting shipments all fudged up?
Luckily, none of this applied to my performance at Bloomingdale’s. I mean, I was good at my job. You don’t even have to take my word for it — after three months, I got a promotion. I’ll explain this later.
But it was the feeling of not 100% knowing what was going on at my job that plagued me. A lot.
The general feeling of being inadequate — right or wrong — was one that I definitely experienced. This paranoid, aching sense that I didn’t belong nagged at me for my entire 6 month tenure at Bloomingdale’s (don’t worry, I left because Armani recruited me to head up their e-commerce shop). I never felt quite right. Why?
There is only one word that can explain why I was plagued by these eerie feelings: Macro. Spelled: M – A – C – R – O.
Hands up who can tell me what is a macro? Anyone? Even a guess? Not one? It does sound like McEnroe. Or maybe MacRoe, another (but less) well known surname. Or, it could be that remote, random Portuguese restaurant mega-wholesale store Makro?
Nope. None of the above.
As I would later find out, a macro is a software application that can be applied to Microsoft Excel. According to technopedia, “A macro is an automated input sequence that imitates keystrokes or mouse actions. A macro is typically used to replace a repetitive series of keyboard and mouse actions and are common in spreadsheet and word processing applications like MS Excel.”
In other words, a macro is Excel on crack cocaine.
All of those little formulas you see sometimes in an Excel spreadsheet? Those are Junior George compared to what a Macro can do. A macro can literally build functionality that will make buttons appear that are clickable, and make data spurt out in ways that you didn’t think were possible. It’s like building a website on top of Excel that can process and manipulate data in a myriad of ways.
Why am I rambling on about macros? That’s not sexy?
Simple reason is this: When I was hired to be the Assistant Planner at Bloomingdale’s, I was told that the main priority of my job was to “run the macro.” That’s it. That was my main gig. I mean, the bane of my existence was: the macro. And I was trained on it. For an entire month. Ergo, I was trained for one full month on how to “run the macro.” I was told which buttons to push and in what sequence. I was told who and when so-and-so needed to see the such-and-such output of my “running the macro.” It was all set up. Everyone knew about it. I was the macro-child.
And I even had two computers on my desk to help me “run the macro.” And “run” it, I did. Apparently very well. All of the planners loved what I was producing by “running the macro” and in general, I was a hit in the buying office. People kept stopping by, ogling what I was doing. I mean, I did have two computers. And I was doing lots of stuff. And I was generating reports and talking to planners about sales and markdowns and rates of sale and promotional gross profits. It was all very serious and legit.
But still: What is a “macro”?
Back in 1999, Google’s search engine didn’t exist. Just let that sink in: No Google. There wasn’t anywhere that you could punch in whatever random question was going through your mind and immediately get an answer, a selection of opinions, let alone a bunch of YouTube videos teaching you how to solve it. So I had nowhere to turn to. Not even to a colleague, since I was the only person at my lowly level and I was surrounded by people with double-digit years of experience more than mine.
So for the first few months I sat in silence, hoping for a miracle. Maybe the macro Gods would take pity on me and send me a messenger, replete with friendly suggestions and warm hugs. On other sleepless nights, I had nightmares of the Bloomingdale’s police searching for me, trying to locate me so that I wouldn’t keep faking it at work. I would be running through the halls, hiding in random cubicles, trying to escape the Bloomingdale’s police squad’s grip.
I decided to surreptitiously solicit information from my unsuspecting boss, who we’ll call Bob. At our weekly one-on-one I would slyly ask, “So, what is it exactly that I am supposed to be achieving with my role, long-term?” Bob would look at my quizzically and simply shrug, “Run the macro.”
Duh. Of course.
Ultimately, I befriended a much more senior member of the planning team, and one day I broke down confessing that I really didn’t know what my job was all about. I fessed up that, while I was apparently doing a great job, I really didn’t understand what the job was fundamentally about, and that I was super paranoid and felt like some kind of macro imposter. I mentioned that I had tried to ask my boss what “running the macro” truly meant, but that my efforts were met with little success.
My friend told me immediately, “Of course, that’s normal. This whole place is crazy and overwhelming at first. I went through the same thing. For the first few months, I had no idea what was going on. Then suddenly one day, it all came together.” He went on to explain how he also went through the same vortex when he had joined the department, and that after several months he suddenly had his Eureka moment and everything fell into place. He told me to have patience, that my time would come.
And he was right. It did happen to me one day while I was — you guessed it — running the macro. The light bulb went on. A calmness returned to my body. And I thought to myself, “Ok, I’ve got this.”
Soon enough, Bob promoted me and gave me a raise. I was even put on the “Macro Committee” as an “expert.” Our committee went on to pioneer several important, long-standing reporting systems for the buying office long after I left. Best of all, I was able to articulate what exactly is a macro: It’s an automated system that reproduces a series of steps that would take people 1,000 times longer to reproduce themselves. In other words, it saves us time so that we can do other stuff.
Today, I consult with clients on their macros and how to best implement them in retail settings.
Thank you, Bloomingdale’s.
Bloomingdale’s photo courtesy of Ajay Suresh via Wikipedia
