Step One: Admit You Are Powerless

Today, my boyfriend nearly tripped over a box that the UPS delivery(wo)man had thoughtfully left on his doorstep, directly impeding the footpath necessary to enter the house. The box was addressed to me. This happens approximately once per week, because I am a shopping addict.

When addictions don’t have superficially grotesque ramifications (e.g., “beer bellies,” hair loss, tooth loss, whatever physical malady can be attributed to Iggy Pop to explain why he resembles an 80-year-old-woman), they tend to be overlooked. Sex addiction? Come on, that’s an empathetic descriptor for promiscuity. Food addiction? That only happens to fat people. Shopping addiction? Doesn’t half of the female population have that?

My answer: not like I do. Because my shopping addiction can’t be reduced to a shared giggle, followed by, “Oh, you know Crystal and her shopping.” It’s more like: how-do-I-hide-this-godforsaken-mass-of-receipts, consistently-approaching-overdrawing-my-bank-account, can’t-say-no type habit. To illustrate exactly how far gone I am, I was going to list all of my major purchases over the past week. And then I realized that I’m actually too ashamed.

But the point of this exercise is to demonstrate that I am legitimately, indisputably addicted to consumerism. So, in order to legitimize my claim, addiction must be defined.

First, addiction is actually a genetically inherited predisposition. Without the addiction gene, there can only be habitual or compulsive behavior. Without a doubt, I fulfill the first requirement: addiction is rampant in my bloodline the way that brown eyes and small penises saturate other familial gene pools.

Next, problematic behavior must progress in the face of consequences. Well, sure: approximately every other week, I am left with virtually no money, feigning for my paycheck (which won’t arrive for another ten days). Generally, this happens because I found a pair of Jeffrey Campbell shoes on sale, or bid on items on Ebay without considering that when the auction is over, they have to be paid for (oh, creators of Ebay, I’m pretty sure you’re geniuses. Or in cahoots with the Devil).

Lowered threshold for violence is another symptom of addiction. This is interesting criteria: it actually is true that I am somewhat more bothered by violence than when I was younger. While I still adore the cartoon-ish violence of Troma and other intentionally tasteless filmmaking (the blood spurts! The gratuitous decapitation!), realistic depictions of violent acts depress me. Immensely. After seeing Hurt Locker, I felt compelled to perform a Google Image Search for “Dogoween.” This yielded photographs of puppies who had been forcibly humiliated into wearing costumes. Something about a dejected border collie masquerading as a Parisian sailor instantly improves my mood. I’m not entirely sure how this fits into my shopping addiction, though; I don’t really covet the outfits canines are made to wear. But if the internet says that it’s an indication of addiction, then it must be correct.

Clearly, I could go on for far longer than anyone is willing to read--especially because the symptomatology espoused by these official-looking websites is about as vague as the ailments described on commercials for medications. Usually, these commercials feature a generically attractive man (often on a sailboat) asking questions such as, Do you experience a nondescript, benign emotion at least twice a year?

But this last symptom is definitive: someone abusing may drastically underestimate how much it is costing them. Apparently, an inability to properly balance one’s own bank account is indicative of addiction. This is excellent news: what once was considered a borderline idiotic disinclination for numbers can now be the fault of an addictive gene. Thus, I overdraw my account not because I am irresponsible; I do it because my genes are irresponsible.

Supposedly, the accounting handicap arises from denial of the problem. But as I have clearly demonstrated, I am not in denial. I seek to prove the legitimacy of my addiction, which is sort of the precise opposite of denial. This can only mean one thing: I have successfully completed Step One of the program, and have admitted than I cannot exercise control.

Thank you, everyone. I’ll bring non-alcoholic punch and cookies to the next meeting.