Why I Like to Buy Things or Why My Clothes Still Have the Tags on Them or Why I Give Everything Away

Recently COVID has driven me (repeatedly) to Nordstrom Rack. COVID doesn’t have a car, so COVID leads me online, and, what I’ve found is that once you make that trip, online shows up everywhere you go online. Suddenly Nordstrom Rack is all over my Instagram and Facebook feed and filling my email box with things that were made, apparently, just for me.

The process of choosing what to buy is wonderful because I tend not to breathe. I think this prevents me from aging. If you aren’t fully living, how can you be headed for death?

I don’t breathe as I look at all the pieces of clothing and shoes and undies that could define who I am. I am a long sweater with fringe! That means I grew up on Martha’s Vineyard and know Carley Simon. I am (fake) snakeskin boots! That means I live in New York City and once danced with Iggy Pop. I am that tight black dress which means I have romantic adventures every day of my life and don’t eat carbs. I am those stockings which means I must have high heels somewhere which means I am a woman which means I got it going on which means I can relax and continue to eat the entire pizza that is on the floor in the box on the desk next to my computer.

I am a scanty red brassiere because I am trouble.

Nom nom nom.

I can be both a slob and perfect at the same time as long as I live in the fantasy of what could be if only I buy the right thing! It’s okay to be unattractive because beauty is just a button and some dollars away!

The trouble starts when the box arrives. I am excited—newness! But something happens between looking at the new article of clothing and throwing it aside.

My fantasy collapses. The new just met the old (me and my world) and is no longer new. The new is now old and nothing changed. I just have more shit to shove in drawers.

Damn.

How am I ever going to get perfect? How am I ever going to hit hard enough to ring the bell of everything is okay now, you’ve proven yourself, you’ve found yourself, you are home?

How many sweaters does a girl need to buy to feel safe?

The other day there was a film crew at Spirit Hill and I had to take shelter in the Sugar Shack for the day. It’s a tiny little house with just a bed and a dresser and an outdoor bathroom. I didn’t have any of my stuff with me.

It was heaven. I lay on the bed and watched the birds fly around the apple tree outside the windowed front door. Further out, I saw them having fun or whatever it is when you fly and land, fly and land, on the long lines of grape vines.

They had no luggage, no ten pairs of shoes, no eye liner.

They did not have to get jobs so they could buy that stuff.

They didn’t worry about who they were because they were just being themselves.

What does it mean to live like a bird? What does it mean not to look in the mirror and wonder if you are worthy enough to go out into the world? What does it mean to forage for worms not worrying if other birds will hate or make fun of you if you get a gut? What does it mean to not remember comments people made about your body? What does it mean to just do your stuff without having to run to Starbuck’s for a hit of feel better? What is your stuff anyway?

I keep trying to feel less anxiety by purchasing more stuff.

And then I’m anxious because there’s not enough empty space, not enough room for me.

What I’m saying is, if anyone needs a lightly used cover to last-year’s iPad, hit me up. I’ll send it to you tomorrow.