Pride and Public Transportation

There's something irresistibly old-world about the train. I can't explain it, but as I climbed aboard the shiny Morristown Line at Penn Station, I felt like a Jane Austen heroine, headed to a mysterious boarding school in the pristine mountains. I have all the time in the world, and no altitude adjustments to make, I thought. I settled my black weekend bag at my feet, rearranged my coat, and put my bouquet of flowers across my legs. If I were in a novel, I thought, that bag would contain all my worldly posessions, and this coat would be too shabby to keep out the cold. In fact, I was shivering a little, but only because my jacket was too trendy for the weather. So what if I'm not poor enough for romance? I decided to enjoy the view. The city gave way to green countryside and suburban parking lots. I had just settled into the pages of my decidedly quirky Zadie Smith novel when I heard a strange man's voice behind me.

"No, man, it's totally going to be you," he said. Who, me? I thought. Can this be?
"Why, cause I'm the most approachable?" It was Stranger #2. Oh, I thought.
"No, you're the most desperate." Stranger #1.
"Mike's the one who looks desperate, in those pants." It was Stranger #3. Desperate for what? I wondered. Naively.
"Who, me? I'll bet you five whole bucks - shit, I'll even buy you a drink - if a hooker comes onto me before one comes on to Dave. I will buy you a drink." The mysterious desperate Mike.
"I mean, you could just pay her."
"Yeah right, five bucks?"
"It's Atlantic City, man."
"Huh. That's cheaper than the lunch special at [some Chinese restaurant.]" Long pause while everyone worked out the financial implications. And then Stranger #1 chortled to himself and muttered,
"Hey, so my uncle told me a really filthy joke about this Atlantic city hooker once."
And that was when I stopped listening.

I turned instead to this tried and true passage from Pride and Prejudice, in which Mr. Darcy expresses his affection to Elizabeth, "I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. Unfortunately an only son, I was spoilt by my parents, who allowed me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.''

While I turned the page Mike finished telling the joke about the hooker, and the old man next to me finished his copy of Men's Health and started to snore. Well, I thought, I may be riding a dream train into an imaginary sunset, but at least I'm getting out of Manhattan for a while.

Topless rodeo...

...guilty pleasure or marketing ploy? Or both?

The other day I was reading Glamour magazine, and one of the sections was titled, "Guilty pleasures it's okay to indulge." And I thought, where did the idea of the guilty pleasure come from?

The Puritans would say that it doesn't matter what pleases us, spending too much time indulging ourselves with pleasurable things is the sin in and of itself. It's selfish, it takes time away from pursuits that bring us closer to God. (You'll notice there aren't that many old-school Puritans left in the world. Much like Communism, denial of earthly desires is great in theory but not much use on the ground.)

And then there are the hedonists (harking back to the days of gluttonous Roman orgies) who argue that pleasure is a form of worshipping God, and there's no guilt in it any of it. (There aren't too many Romans left either, proving perhaps that utter indulgence of the senses doesn't leave enough time for practical concerns like defense and resource management.)

But then there are Americans, descendants of both cultures, the city on a hill with provinces that stretch out to Gaul and beyond. We're not Puritans, we're not hedonists, we're capitalists. That strange blend of both viewpoints, a compromise that (if the political landscape is to be believed) tries to please all but secretly pleases none. What's my point? That if pleasure is consumption, then Americans are guilty of most indulgences on earth. But then there's this strange justification (maybe not so strange) that since consumption drives the economy, it's really a form of public service. For example, if I eat one of the Lindt truffles sitting on my counter and savor each buttery taste of white chocolate and each drop of creamy filling, I'm being a sensualist. On the other hand, if I eat it but think instead of the Brazilian cocoa farmer who will now be able to send his daughters to college, and the Swiss distributor who, thanks to my small purchase, will haul himself further out of debt, and even the chocolatier whose commissions will finance his aging mother's care, then I'm actually doing a good turn for my international neighbors. I'm taking one for the team, so to speak.

It's the same idea behind "Breast Cancer Month" bracelets and perfumes and scarves. Of course I think curing breast cancer is a worthy cause, but I'm not sure I believe in the good intentions of people who pay $5000 for a dress and rest comfortably in the knowledge that 10% of the proceeds will go towards the Cure. I'm guilty: I believe in the all-or-nothing mentality. A good deed should be its own reward, and a scarf should be a pretty thing to keep you warm in winter. I understand why we mix the two, because you can't live in a black-and-white world (or pink-and-white, in this case), and charity should be fun as well as serious. But having engaged in serious acts of charity before (mainly because I can't afford the fluffier kind) I have this to say: it's only as serious as you make it. I would argue that the people who write a straight donation for $1000 and then go buy whatever the hell scarf they want are probably happier, because they don't feel the oppressive need to justify their pleasures.

It's like children of immigrants (I can use that phrase because I am one) who speak one language at home and another at school. Are they hypocrites? Who says you need to pick one and stick with it? Since when are we so intractable, so inadaptable, that we need to be one philosophy all the time?

I know the argument some people will make. Anika, they'll say, what you don't realize is that there are tons of people out there who would never donate to the Cure unless they were getting something out of it. My response is: they won't anyway. It's not worth relying on that fickle demographic, charity ballers. And my other response is, since when do we have so little faith in people? Seriously. People who complain about human nature have forgotten one key fact: we are moving forward. Each generation progresses toward more open-mindedness, tolerance, responsibility and generosity than the last. Yes, this past century has seen genocide, war and pollution. But so has every century before it. Let's not fall into the trap of bewailing the modern day. And if the world is getting better, then people must be making it better. It's a struggle against our baser nature, but it's not hopeless.

Go ahead and eat the truffle. It's delicious. And then spend an hour teaching a homeless kid to read. The balance - the meld, if you will - will be fantastic, and not compromising on either will make the both infinitely more satisfying than some bullshit cause like "Truffles for literacy: 10% of profits go to putting books in urban classrooms." I mean, in my opinion, the people who come up with causes like the latter are really just trying to sell you something anyway.

Red Shoe Diaries 134: Finding the One(s)

So when I was six, my favorite movies were, in order, The Ten Commandments and The Red Shoes. The plot of the first closely resembles the Biblical story by the same name, although the original had no special effects, nor Charlton Heston. The second movie, slightly less well-known, is the story of a classically trained ballerina who leaves ballet to marry the man she loves. Unfortunately, she can't put aside her love of dance, and when she dons her famous red shoes one last time and ascends the stage, she ends up plunging to her death (or maybe she catches on fire). (Just as a side note: the scene in Disney's Aladdin where Jafar imprisons Jasmine in an hourglass nearly made me sob with fear, but the slavery of the Israelites, the death of Pharaoh's firstborn son, and Victoria's fiery suicide did absolutely nothing for me. Interesting.)

The point is, even then, I realized that red shoes had a passionate, storied significance. Women who wore brown and black leather became investment bankers and internists. Women in red shoes, though? They became the artists and lovers of myth. (Or, in some cases, the artists and lovers of adult film. Oh well.)

So for the past several years, perhaps without even realizing it, I've been looking for the perfect pair of red shoes. I'll admit I've given in to all kinds of other colors and styles, bought them, worn them, and given them away to charity. But somehow I knew that I wouldn't be able to do that with the red shoes. When I found them, it wouldn't be casual. Needless to say, the people closest to me questioned my judgment.
"You know," my mom said delicately once, "I know you're growing up in a different culture, but don't you think you have...you know...too many?"
"Mom," I said, "If I don't try a lot of different shoes, how will I ever know what I really want?"
"Yes, but if you're looking for red heels, why settle for yellow chiffon flats or bronze peeptoe wedges or black leather boots?"
"I'm just waiting for the right ones to come along," I said defensively. And then she got very serious, looked at me across the span of the generations between us, and said wisely,
"One day, this instant gratification won't be enough anymore." She waited to make sure I understood. "One day, you'll realize you want shoes you can rely on. Shoes you can take to work, to home, to your parents house. Shoes you can pass on to your children."
"Mom, I don't want to have children anytime soon!" I cried, just so she knew.
"I know, but you have to realize you will never find perfect shoes. The heels will be too high, or the toes will pinch, or the color will be a little off. And you'll have to love them anyway."
"What are you saying?" I asked, alarmed.
"That there's no such thing as the ones. One day, you'll have to learn to settle."

But I refused to give in to that fogie logic. You might have settled, Mom, but I never will! I thought resolutely. I combed flea markets, discount warehouses and designer boutiques. I tried wedges, flats, boots and stilettos. I looked at leather, suede, canvas and satin. I looked in the United States, in Italy, in India. But I couldn't commit! At first my friends were excited to help me look, to sit with me when I rejected yet another pair, to start the search again. But eventually they grew tired. They had their own feet to take care of. I saw friend after friend purchase expensive pairs and walk away satisfied and I thought, what's wrong with me? Why can't I be happy like everyone else?

And then, last night, I walked into the Aldo sale shop on Fifth Avenue. And from across crowded aisles, I caught the gleam of flourescent light on a a red satin bow. I stopped breathing. The faces around me grew blurred, and as I moved towards the shelf, I thought that every moment in my life had somehow led up to this one. It can't be, I thought, pulling a pair of strappy red satin stilettos off the shelf. I sank onto the trial bench, knees weak.
"Can I...try these?" I asked the salesman. When he took them from me, I felt a strange pang of loss and another of jealousy. Don't touch my shoes! I thought. I looked at all the other people in the store, moving about their daily lives, and I thought, how can they not know?

He came back with a box. I unfolded the tissue and slid the shoes out of the box. Red satin, slim four-inch heels, tiny red gems and a bow on the toes. But really, no description can do them justice. I tried them on and realized that yes, they were a little uncomfortable, but I could learn to walk in them.

"Damn girl, those are hot," the salesman said.

"Oh, I know," I replied. I walked up the counter, a place I never thought I'd reach, and handed the box to the saleswoman. The blip of the scanner filled my hearing.

"These are on sale for $19.97," she said, and I looked up and I thought, This is the sign I've been waiting for. I handed her my credit card. I turned to my friend Angela, who had come in with me.
"Thanks," I said, "for waiting for me to do this." She smiled.
"I'm glad you're happy," she said.

This morning I got up and looked at those shoes again, and they looked just as good (if not better!) than the night before. Sure, they're pretty, rather than practical. But practical is what all the black flats are for. Mom, I thought, you were right. But some things are worth waiting for.

You will go blind...

…and other myths.

Not on the level of Eros and Psyche, but how about this:
1. Women don’t check each other out. I was walking down the hallway today, skirt swishing, when I was immobilized by a brief but powerful up-and-down flicker. I looked the giver in the eye only to realize I was exchanging not-so-sexy glances with the middle-aged blonde who delivered our office supplies. Yeech! I quickly looked away, but I have to admit, this $10 dress has stood up to a lot of stares.

2. New Yorkers are unfriendly. Maybe it’s because the rest of the country has ribbed them about it for decades, but New Yorkers are actually pretty nice, considering that you can’t really generalize about an entire population of 8 million people. For example, the other day on the subway I heard one man say to his friend, ‘maybe one of these ladies would like your seat.’ Of course, I was later informed that said seat was on the friend’s lap, but I suppose if I’d been pregnant or handicapped I would have considered the offer godawfully considerate.

3. There are no straight men working for magazines. Or if they are straight, they’re unattractive. Or if they’re attractive, they’re obsessed with sports. Or if they’re attractive and multi-faceted, then they’re really just gay/not manly enough to fix your pipes or change your tires or whatever the hell else women need. There are lots of straight men in my office, but it’s an adventure sports magazine. So are we back where we started?

4. It’s easy to look busy, especially when you’re not. Believe me, typing furtively in your AIM window/checking your gmail account/reading erotica convinces no one. Yawning at the computer screen is especially unconvincing, and will get you slapped with a five-hour filing project in no time.

Putting the "I" in Id...

So it happens like this: they give you at least 100 multiple choice questions. You stare at row after row of ovals, remembering high-school aptitude tests, and try (like always!) to find the right answer. Should you represent your best self, or your worst? Which is real? Do you know? Does anyone know? Is it possible that all this while, you didn't really know yourself? Is it conceivable that a functioning adult can be so thoroughly and sytematically misunderstood?

Maybe it's not this angst-ridden for everyone, but I find personality tests to be both tedious and misleading. For one thing, I was (I know this sounds arrogant but I'll say it anyway) too smart for them (or at least, for the Myers-Briggs I used to take). I know I manipulated my results, because I went through an INFP phase, an ENTJ phase, an ENFJ phase, etc. Why? INFP's are sensitive artists, ENTJ's are astronauts and inventors, ENTJ's are presidents and CEO's. I don't think a person's personality changes depending on her career goals, or on what her friends are at the time. Bubble skirts, skinny jeans, neurotransmitter structure...some things can be blamed on the times, others can't.

I always shied away from the label "introvert" because I thought of introverts as modern misanthropes, living in cabins in the (fast disappearing!) forests and nursing lame grudges against the world. The nasty neighbor who chased kids off his lawn on Halloween? Introvert. That stringy-haired high-schooler who thought SIMS domination meant world domination? Introvert. That 50-year-old guy who boarded up his windows after his wife left him for a Chippendale? Introvert! Introvert = outcast, a 21st century Van Gogh, cutting off his ear and giving it to a prostitute in a poorly calculated gesture of affection. And while Van Gogh's paintings are worth millions today, at the time he was a lone wolf, a silent revolutionary, a man who lived in his parents' attic and gave off the funk of disillusionment.

What I'm getting at, with all these wordy allusions, is that I thought to be introverted meant to be alone, and more importantly, lonely. So of course, having been lonely (cue slow song from any chick flick ever made) I thought, this sucks. Why do it on purpose? But I've been wrong all along (this being the part in said flick where the boy runs after the girl's departing airplane/convertible/llama). I'm so sorry, introverted self! I messed up when I rejected you! I want you back! Introversion has nothing to do with loneliness, lifestyle or career. Most introverts love people, they just don't love all of them. They just don't get that sudden bloom of energy from shaking a hand they've never shook before. To be honest, I'm not sure I get it anymore either, and that worries me, because (the hero curses his own stupidity while the heroine listens with sympathy) I never realized I could change. But maybe it's true. Our needs change, our personality evolves, the child becomes the parent and the Myers-Briggs totters from E to a shocking but unmistakable I.

Is it possible that all this while I just never really knew? (The hero and heroine ride off into the introverted sunset, which in fact looks like a sunrise...or am I just kissing the dictionary's ass at this point?)