Monday, August 13, 2007

Back to School Shopping

This is a big week for the shopping mall. Whether we’re sending a kid back to school or just responding to our own internal clock, fall shopping is now. Throughout the stores today we’ll complain about prices, and we’ll commiserate about what kids insist they, “have to have”, but the odds are good that adults will also want a new shirt or sweater this time of year.

The pull to shop is powerful; it’s that New Year’s feeling that’s built into us from years of preparing for school, but there is also a strong push that comes from advertising. The August issues of women’s magazines insist that “brown is the new black”, and “low waists are out”. It’s easy enough to take shots at the fashion industry, imagining the marketing wizards who pull our strings to make us shop, and we can sigh that we are slaves to materialism who base our identities on what we wear. Yes, all of that is true. But it’s not new.

The truth is that we’re all wearing costumes all the time, and what we wear is a form of communication. So if we’re going to cover our nakedness and communicate we may as well have some fun.

I didn’t always feel this way. For years I bought into the idea that virtue was to be found in the equivalent of wearing sackcloth and ashes. I hid my love of clothes and felt ashamed when I bought the fall fashion magazines. I believed it was politically incorrect to know the names of designers as well as I knew poets. But that changed.

I remembered why clothes became important: What I recall from 7th grade, in addition to Darwin’s Voyage of the Beagle, was my obsession with another girl’s shoes. My parents allowed only one pair of new school shoes: nice, neutral penny loafers. But that fall I sat near a girl whose shoes matched her clothes. For weeks I stared at her feet and the navy kidskin flats trimmed with bright green piping. The many shoes that tumble out of my closet today are futile attempts to fill-- in the present--a hole that exists in the past.

But there is another factor: I stopped believing there is only one way to be a feminist, and I decided it’s not politically incorrect to love clothes. Although fashion is commerce and marketing it’s also art. After all, color, shape, line and texture are the ingredients that sculptors work with too. Clothes are a form of self-expression and communication, and even stylistically, freedom of speech. Feminists for Fashion? Sign me up.

But where do we draw the line? How do we balance the role of clothing in our own culture against the fact that, “I have nothing to wear” is an actual truth in other parts of the world? How do we shop and dress consciously? How do we find the middle ground?
Is there a way to manage desire so that it inspires our creativity and doesn’t shame us—or young women who are naturally enjoying this part of life? I believe there is an emotional center in which we can enjoy clothes and not be dominated by them.

The answer is discernment, that seemingly religious word. It means stilling the internal voices—our own and the ones piped in from ads-- and making conscious decisions about what we buy and why. It would be a great gift to young shoppers and we can practice with them too.

Our time here is brief; there’s more than enough pain to go around; we don’t need to grit our teeth or dress in grim determination just to get through life. So go shop, celebrate with something new, and enjoy what you wear.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

Oh, the Married Men

One of the great songs by the Roches is called “Married Men”. Maggie, Teri and Suzy sing: “Oh the married men, the married men. Makes me feel like a girl again to run with the married men.”

I’ve been humming that song all day. Last night in a women’s meeting the woman who chaired was celebrating two years of sobriety. She shared that she had been dating a married man for five years, and was now struggling with that and realizing that soon she’d need to end the relationship. Her shame and pain were palpable. Now, with two years of recovery she was experiencing the reality that sets in with clearer eyes. It’s less easy—though not impossible --to rationalize and justify having an affair when you are sober.
Being in a women’s meeting it was possible then for others to talk about this particularly effective way that we hurt ourselves. When I spoke I talked about the married men in my life before and, yes, even in recovery. For those who have not had an affair with a married man it is only another “yet”.

I was dating a married man when I got into recovery. I went to my first AA meeting with him because he was court-ordered and he had lost his license. I was helping by driving him to AA on Sunday mornings. We went to AA and then we went to “brunch”. Brunch was saturated with alcohol. But the gift was that less than a year later, when I was ready to go to AA for me, I knew where to go and I knew that the people were nice and I had a sense of the protocol of meetings.
I am tickled though that we all use the word “dating” for married men. When I was dating my married men, the court-ordered one and yes, the 13th stepping one in early recovery, there were no dinners, no movies, no where was the “dating”?
Now, I must admit, as I said in the meeting, I still play in this dangerous water. No more affairs but I flirt, and I fantasize. What is that? I have had many other addictions: smoking, food, work, exercise but never, so I said, self-mutilation or cutting, but isn’t that what married men are for sober women? Ways we can cut ourselves or throw acid at ourselves? That is how great the pain is—and the shame.

So what to do with this addiction: I try to apply the same principles I learned to apply to alcohol to my desire for a married man. First, don’t romance the drink. Stop the fantasies of romance and love. He can’t. End of story. Yes he’ll say all the right words. Married men always do. They can say “I love you” faster than any single guy because there is NO commitment for them.
Second, and maybe this should be first: don’t pick up the drink. It may be the first flirt, the seeking and accepting of the first too-intimate compliment or the first hint of “You’re so special”—bait I particularly crave. And then, as with all dangerous and addictive substances: recovery is one step and one day at a time: don’t email him today—just this 24 hours. Don’t call and don’t even check your messages hoping to hear from “Him”. For one day—and sometimes for just this hour—say no, call someone, pray, do service, call another recovering person, go to a meeting, and remember that it only gets worse not better when you talk to “Him” about it. As Susan Cheever writes in, “The Other Woman”, conversations about “Why we can’t have sex” almost always result in heated and explosive sex.