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Fashionably
Afflicted
I always wait until my husband goes to bed before
I start. Our bedroom is dark except for the sliver of light beneath the
bathroom door. Perched on the lid, I succumb to my demons. Emerging from
the bathroom, I feel like a different person: weak, confused, and shameful.
What was this sickness? Why couldnât I stop reading those damned fashion
magazines?
According to the National Association for Drug Abuse Counselors, an estimated
half million Americans are heroin addicts, and almost 750,000 use cocaine
daily. That's sobering, but have you seen the circulation numbers for
Vogue? Seven million readers purchase this printed garbage, to say nothing
of the subscribers and the people actually featured in the magazine. In
my bathroom alone, I've collected at least twelve magazines: Marie Claire,
Lucky, Vogue, and the occasional Bazaar (I needed last month's. It was
the hair issue). I know each of these magazines cover to slick cover,
yet I keep them around. On any given day, I have at least two in my briefcase.
I eat my lunch in a secluded corner of the park. Magazine in one hand
and mobile phone in the other, I call the featured stores ordering up
the latest trends like the soup of the day.
Imagine not being able to walk past a Neiman Marcus without popping in
"just to see the new styles." When I can't sleep, I roam around
Wal-Mart, fingering price tags and trying on jewelry. Not a day goes by
when I don't slip away from my desk and make the phone call from Honolulu
to London, begging them to simply describe the new handbags at Oasis or
Fenwick. The conversation is always the same. In a game of haute couture
charades, I ask, "Are they shiny or matte? Are bagettes making a
comeback?" The girl on the other end sounds like she fears for her
life as she answers a tentative yes or no. I immediately become suspicious.
"The manager's there, isn't she?" I hiss. "Yes," she
says, and nothing further. "And you havenât told her about us, right?"
No answer. I felt like a dirty secret. "Come on," I pleaded,
pushing my pride aside for the moment. "Give a girl something to
dream about."
I recently took a two-week trip to Sapporo, Japan. Once I hit the airport,
I dutifully exchanged all my cash into yen. After a brief lay-down in
the hotel, up I sprang. I boarded the bullet train headed for downtown.
Not unlike the junky nodding off on the corner, I don't know how long
I spent in the mall. I don't even remember sleeping. At the end of the
two weeks, my bags and I stumbled into the airport, dazed, confused and
yet, strangely satiated. When the bank statement came in the mail, I shredded
the whole thing without opening it. I know I had spent over $600, but
where else was I going to find a pink mohair peacoat with tortoise shell
details, I ask you? Besides, it was Yen. Is that even money, as such?
I finally reached my lowest point this last Saturday. I woke with a nagging
feeling in the pit of my stomach and a lump in my throat. Two showers,
three changes of shoes and a bowl of oatmeal later, it hit me. I grabbed
last month's Lucky and sprinted to the nearest Saks Fifth Avenue (as you
may well know, some addicts are imbued with superhuman strength at times
when the promise of a fix presents itself). Thrusting the magazine under
the shop girl's nose, I demanded a crocodile purse similar to the Dior
bag on page 67. Out of my Lulu Guinness tote, I produced my favorite crocodile.
"They must match these shoes!" I say, perhaps a little too shrill.
People were calmly, but ever-so-purposefully leaving the store. "Hurry!"
I cried. Racks of Marc Jacobs spun as the fabric covered walls inched
closer to me. I swore the ceiling grazed the top of my head. I admonished
the manager for her shoddy choice in shop music. She turned on her cheap
shoes and stalked away. I gulped down a nearby Diet Vanilla Coke while
the shop girl reappeared with an arm full of handbags. After I made my
purchase, the security guard took me for a ride in his car to which our
destination was the Honolulu Police Department. What did I do wrong? Honestly,
at times, I feel like a misunderstood castaway on a very fashionable island.
At the behest of my husband (a mean-spirited tightwad who only wants my
side of the closet. I'll never surrender), I went cold turkey three days
ago. He and my best friend (traitor) performed the dreaded intervention.
I was literally imprisoned while they spouted off a bunch of nonsense
about twelve step programs for people like me. The first step, they said,
was admitting I had a problem. Then, I'd have to accept the presence of
a higher power and submit to other time-consuming tasks. To make a long
story short, I told them I'd look into it. The police let me go and I've
been miserable ever since.
I haven't set well-heeled foot inside department store or thrift shop.
I drove by a garage sale this weekend, hoping my head wouldnât explode
from the sheer desire to trade currency for stuff. While at work, though,
I happened upon a wonderful thing. I had no idea that my favorite stores-
both American and European- had sites online. No longer did I have to
pester the girls at Oasis, Fenwick or even Saks (27 more days before I
can legally shop there again, so it works out perfectly). I could enjoy
retail therapy on an outpatient basis! My purchases could even be made
under an assumed name, shipped to my new best friend's house and no one
would be the wiser. Ain't life grand? So I'm not exactly cured, so what?
What's important is that I've recognized I have a problem and put myself
in the hands of a higher power.
In fact, the higher power called me today with a friendly reminder that
my bill has come due. I figure the other ten steps will fall into place
eventually.
by
Keisha Poiro
12th October 2003
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