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.

On Sex Appeal, Sequins, and Google

Okay, so I admit: I’m prone to preoccupation. Sometimes I find myself fixated with mundane things (what to have for dinner), and sometimes with stereotypically female things (which shoes best complement my dress?). But lately, my everyday preoccupations have taken an inexplicable turn; moments of intellectual idleness have been filled wondering, What the hell is “sexy,” anyway?

Even after a week(-ish) of obsession, I still don’t really know how to define sexiness. And before it seems like my ruminations are simply an extension of my own vanity, I don’t know whether I would even be included in any objective definition. My guess is, probably not: I am cute. Cuteness is not a negative attribute--it doesn’t indicate hideousness, at any rate. However, it is unequivocally unsexy. Toddlers, puppies, and certain physical handicaps are adorable, but they aren’t typically associated with genitalia.

Sexiness is far more difficult to marginalize than cuteness/adorability. It is enigmatic, and somewhat subjective (but also kind of universal--hence, enigmatic). It is connected to appearance, but not contingent upon it. A girl with a strut is sexy. A dancer who moves with fluidity is sexy. Mysterious and/or intensely talented people are sexy. And Otis Redding’s voice was indisputably sexy.

There is a particularly incredible bass player that I saw recently who exemplifies sexiness. Her name is Paz, and she plays with The Entrance Band. When I saw her, I was entranced with her onstage presence, despite that she is not especially good-looking. But, when she’s onstage, playing insanely complex bass riffs and managing to dance simultaneously in four-inch heels(?!), her appearance is a nonissue. And really, her sex appeal cannot be understated. After seeing her perform, I essentially sought out single male friends and insisted that they make out with her.

Based upon this description, one might be inclined to presume that dancing to catchy rhythms in high heels is the formula upon which sexiness is based (it works for strippers, doesn’t it?). But to make this assumption is to make an egregious error. Because that same night, offstage, in the dark recesses of the club, (blessedly) hidden from most club-goers’ view, was a girl. And she was dancing. This, theoretically, is a benign description, so let me rephrase: she was a dancing train wreck. With sequins. But it’s difficult to determine what made her the antithesis of Paz, the enchanting onstage siren. Sequin girl moved with fluidity and rhythm, and she moved unabashedly; she was not guilty of the usual pitfalls of unsexy dancing. Perhaps it was that her movements too closely resembled those of an expert hula-hooper. I suppose there’s a reason strippers have avoided implementing childhood toys in their act, and it probably has something to do with the weak correlation between prepubescent girls’ methods of amusement and sexual arousal.

Anyway, as I was saying: the anthropomorphized disco ball (i.e., sequin girl) was not particularly attractive; but again, neither is Paz. Nevertheless, a lack of superficial genetic gifts is the only trait these two shared. Thus, evidence mounts that sexiness is a seemingly aesthetic quality, but it does not rely on attractiveness. Moreover, no one is sexy while wearing sequins and/or imitating hula-hooping motions.

My obsession with the ambiguity of sex appeal has exceeded mere speculation. It inspired me to venture into some fairly humiliating territory. First, there was the “unstripped” dancing class. Now, I’m not exactly the most likely candidate to enlist in a class un-ironically titled “The Art of Seduction.” To begin with, I dislike the name’s association with Neil Strauss (epiphany: the fact that I associate nearly everything with books probably isn’t arousing to the general population).

Also, the mental image of me tripping through choreography to invoke an erection is laughable. I prefer seduction the old-fashioned way: lots of liquor. And if my terrible execution of what the dance instructor consistently referred to as “very slow” and “easy” dance moves is any indication, I’m going to have to travel with a portable mini-bar at all times.

But enrollment in a dance class is just a vaguely masochistic manifestation of my preoccupation. Really, my embarrassing behavior culminated in one drunken act: I Googled “how to be sexy”. As stated, I was mildly intoxicated at the time, but the fact remains: I was wondering how to attain an intangible quality that inspires genital connection, SO I CONSULTED THE INTERNET. Could there be any less sexy of an approach? (Note to anyone who may actually be reading this: don’t answer that.)

Perhaps not surprisingly, Google did not yield the answers that I desired. Websites provided differing information, but the prevailing wisdom was: 1. Be yourself. This is truly awful advice for some: we weren’t all born with sexual charisma (can you imagine Donald Trump in the throes of passion? Do you want to?). And: 2. Wear a push-up bra. Now, advising a woman to wear a push-up bra is solid advice for many situations; if she wants attention without the use of wit or intelligence, or needs her bust to exhibit a more shelf-like appearance, then a push-up bra is the solution. However, implying that a mammary-enhancing apparatus can instill a personality trait is irrational. Basically, these fucking fifteen-year-old proto-hackers are as hopelessly clueless as I am.

Nevertheless, I do recommend a “how to be sexy” Google search. Not so much because the results are enlightening, or so you can experience my pathetic journey. More because it’s hilarious.

In the meantime, I’ll be practicing my sexy dance choreography, in stilettos, without a sequin in sight.