Drunk on Haterade

Welcome to Fear and Loathing in Ashvegas. See how I did that? Prepared you to think how funny it will be when I deliver the subsequent self-deprecating remark? I should start with something simple and surface. I could comment rather cavalierly about the sad state of my waistline. But with more wit. Something like, "It's a good thing I have big boobs - they detract from how fat I'm getting." That one actually scores double points because I have called attention to my uncomfortably large chest in addition to to my chubbiness. You couldn't believe how many ways I've come up with to call myself fat - overweight, big-boned, rounding, tipping the scales, fleshy, hefty...you get the picture.

From the superficial, we could cross over into something slightly more personal. How about my unmarried status? There is some seriously fertile ground for Ash-bashing. We could have a few laughs - at my expense, of course - about the time lapsed since my last date. Like, "I haven't been on a date since Congress had a 50% approval rating." But after a few generalized chuckles, we have to dig deeper. To really pour on the haterade, you have to mock the heart of the matter.

You have to turn the guns on your current personal position and blow it to smithereens. Like a double agent, you have to expose yourself to the enemy and then take yoursellf out. Because, really, all you're doing is taking exactly what the enemy is thinking, dipping it twice in sarcasm, sprinkling it with a little clever wordplay and serving yourself a deceptively sticky sweet ball of venom.

And that's when you start to get drunk on the haterade. When the self-defense against what you think might be said and voicing all of the fears and doubts inside your head become a mantra that snakes through your brain until you really start to believe it. You really start to think that all those things you're saying to be funny are true. That you are fat. And that you will be alone forever. And, more than that, you will be alone because you're deficient. Because you're less than what anyone else would want. You start to see those fears and doubts and insecurities that existed in your mind become reality because you made them so...because you allowed your mockery to become who you are.

I presently have a haterade hangover. It makes my head ache sometimes, choosing between the easy, glib remark and responding in a more self-respecting manner. I mean, it's funny. The haterade makes people laugh. And despite my best efforts, I sometimes still take a shot. But other times, I'm trying give myself a fighting chance against the hair of the dog that bit me.

Retail Therapy: When the Bottom Shops Out

Happy birthday to me. Who could deny herself a few confections for her 32nd birthday? There were the shoes - the delightful nude suede lace-up half-boots I bought with the DSW gift card they bestowed on me. That was followed by an Amazon order - some books and movies and CDs because those are the sorts of gift I would want for my birthday. And when I went to TJ Maxx and everything just seemed to fit, I took it as a sign to buy it all. The Borders by my house is going out of business, and before I knew it, three trips and a stack of books later, I'd swiped a fair amount on the old plastic telling myself it was a good deal.

It didn't end there. Because in addition to my spending on non-perishables like shoes and dresses and books, there was a generous uptick in my payout for perishable items. Like cocktails. And dinners. And lunches and brunches. So while I was growing fat, my wallet grew thin.

On one particular day, a box from DSW arrived at the same time as an Amazon shipment, and I arrived home to both directly from a shopping spree. My den was littered with boxes and bubble wrap and the smell of new shoes and a pile of new books and the wadded up cellophane that covered the DVDs strewn among the rubble. And I felt a twinge of something. But ignored it.

But looking back, I can see how sad it felt to sit among all those new things and still feel the void. I know it's cliche; but cliches are cliche because they so accurately portray the human condition in all its repetitive glory. I mean, it's nothing new to shop out of sadness or loneliness or desperation or all three. But cliche or no, it was still the case.

I know what I was thinking in some moments: that I deserved new things to compensate for the lack of whatever else I wanted. I was seizing those things I wanted that I could acquire with a credit card. Who wouldn't want to exact that sort of control when other things on the wishlist are so maddeningly unattainable no matter my credit limit? Why shouldn't I buy pretty clothes and beloved books and movies that provide the perfect escape from reality when faced with the immense dissatisfaction of what I couldn't purchase?

What a harrowing truth. I think I finally accepted it during a bridal shower - an affair at which we were the sole shoppers in a downtown boutique. And instead of selecting one item as a token purchase, I chose...well, more than one. Despite the discount the boutique offered, I still nearly choked when presented with the credit card slip. But with a swift flick of the pen, I signed my name under a ghastly total. That was the moment that the rationalizations and rationality collided in my head in a strange confusion of voices about what I deserved and what was okay and what had spun totally out of control.

The point is not how much I spent. It wasn't the money. It wasn't that for once in my life I burned through an entire paycheck like water. It was that I let myself. That I could be in a place where I found it permissible to soothe my wounded soul with so much stuff. The truth came close to the bone...that I could be reckless because I just didn't care anymore. Who needs to be reasonable when all hope is lost? Who needs to rein in when the rain never stops? Why not shop myself broke? What's to lose except money?

To be honest, I haven't taken anything back. Perhaps because I truly like the things I purchased. Perhaps because when I wear those jeans I simply had to have or the dress meant for the next special occasion, I'll remember. I'll remember that all hope is not lost. That there's something to hope for, even if it's just for that place where the aubergine Ralph Lauren dress will be the perfect attire.

Image via Rita H. Ireland