DECEMBER 1999
| THAT'S LIFE
RELATED ARTICLE RECENT ESSAYS UP NEXT KRISTEN HAVENS, a freelance videographer, editor and writer, with a particular focus on poetry and screenplays, is a contributing writer to Renaissance Online Magazine. She makes her home near Hartford, CT.
FULL ISSUE CONTENTS |
Mail Order M.O. - Who Am I?
KRISTEN HAVENS
Like any self-respecting woman older than twenty-one and younger
than one hundred, I am not particularly fond of divulging my age, salary
or weight. That said, I would like to address the seemingly omnipotent
twentieth-century invention known as the Mailing List: that most secret
of agencies which has somehow targeted, tagged and labeled me as a Slim,
Rich, Thirty-something Housewife on Permanent Exotic Vacation. I'm making an educated guess that the deluge of paper began with my
early nineties entry into higher-priced catalog shopping. Over the
past eight years I have placed perhaps five total clothing orders with a
certain preppy-sophisticate institution we all know and love. Yet in
the time that has lapsed since my first major credit card balance, the
influx of catalogs courting my mailbox has multiplied by fifty. Now,
at the dawn of the year 2000, hand in hand with the economic boon and
the mobilization of the buying class, it becomes equally suspect and
apropos that a struggling single woman like myself has been profiled as
a rapacious, not to mention overeducated, consumer. My needs, the Mailing List tells me, are numerous, sophisticated and
highly visible. To think that just a few short years ago, as a recent
college graduate, I was uncertain about my identity and social
standing. In the face of all of this mail, I can no longer deny my
true calling. I am a showy, hoarding dilettante and I wear my
insecurities like a badge. I hunger for one-hundred percent linen dresses even as I canvass the
countryside with my frame pack and three-season tent. My need for
capri pants and Gore-tex is insatiable. Though I often find myself
fly-fishing in the Pacific Northwest, I cannot stand dirt and I wash
twice a day with lava-enriched bath salts. And though I smell of
floral, cruelty-free perfume, my adventures cause me to sweat so all of
my clothing must wick. Wicking is my religion. Speaking of wicks: I own over one-thousand aromatherapeutic candles
and several dozen candelabras to match. I unwind at the end of a long
day by pouring and scenting my own pillars. If I'm still uptight after
a eucalyptus bath, I take a stroll through my avocado-lined grounds with
the aid of my hand-tooled Moroccan sandals. When I must leave my considerable acreage for a visit to the city, I
never venture forth without my pocket-sized weather radio and global
positioning system. For longer treks, I require specially designed,
wrinkle-resistant travel clothing, including a straw hat which crumples
to the size of a golf ball. All the better for the inevitable,
impromptu club-swinging on Safari. I never let a birthday or anniversary pass without a thoughtful gift
of imported D'Anjou pears, miniature bonsai trees or living wreaths. My
home, which, of course, I own, is decorated ceiling to floor in "butter"
colored drapes, "sage" slipcovers and sheer organza shower curtains with
little pockets (presumably to display a selection of favorite
collector's stamps; my overnight guests are philatelists). For elegant
occasions, I deck my dining room table with a runner made from genuine
Brazilian moss. And I always serve my sherry from hand-blown decanters.
I hired a closet consultant to organize my walk-in and I keep a steady
supply of cedar blocks on hand for the protection of my vast selection
of Shetland wool sweaters. Seeing as I am that rare urban dweller with a garden, I take a keen
interest in stainless steel spades and antique brass barometers. In my
copious free time, I enjoy the arts of embossing, paper-making and
calligraphy. Occasionally, though, I just need to get away. When the urge to
escape strikes, I am always grateful for the opportunity to hop on an
academic Black Sea tour led by one of my former professors. When I
return, I can be sure that my faithful stacks of catalogs await. Clearly, in this age of keystroke consumerism, the old adage "time
is money" is an understatement. We are a frazzled citizenship; a
country of manics pumped up on caffeine, nicotine and good old-fashioned
American industry. Caught up in the frenzy of ambition, who,
realistically, has the time to self-assess? Certainly not I. So there is some comfort after all in this
twenty-first century trend of consumer profiling. Now that Big Brother
has told me who I am, I can finally relax without the time-consuming aid
of therapy. I have an analyst who comes directly to my door, free of
charge, rain or shine. I no longer need to waste valuable hours on the
couch, poring over the yearnings of my subconscious. Instead, I can
simply flip to page eighty, flash the plastic, and see myself in the
reflection of the Bering Strait: puffy and doubt-free, decked out in my
goose-down anorak and designer moon boots. Tromping my way to nirvana
through a sixteen-foot snow-drift, with not a banana-conditioned hair
out of place. * * * * | |||||
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