ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 134
it would only take a few months. With the heady feeling of new resolve, I
contemplated tackling the gum chewing next.
I am not a stranger to attempting to cure addictions. Having survived
two months of upset stomach and uncontrolled fantasizing when I went off
caffeine cold turkey, I decided a better way might be to taper off the junk
hauling slowly. First, I would eliminate the non-essentials. I went out and
bought a new purse, measuring it to make sure it was at least two inches
smaller than the duffel bag I'd been carrying around.
I filled the new bag to capacity, shoved everything left over into the
closet, and marked the calendar for 30 days. The next month I bought
another new purse, even smaller than the old one. Again, the excess went
into the closet.
I knew in the back of my mind that a whole new set of problems was
building behind the closet door, and that some morning when I opened it in
my daily search for the perfect outfit, the mountain would tumble out around
me, I would be overcome with nostalgia at the sight of my first pair of glasses ยท
(round metal-rimmed monstrosities that I despised at age seven) and lose my
job for not showing up "in a timely manner" at my workplace, my reaction to
nostalgia being long fits of sobbing in solitude. But the thrill ofknowing I was
whittling down an addiction to manageable size kept me flying high, or
maybe it was just the lessening of the weight suspended from my shoulder.
As my campaign continued, the choices got tougher. I agonized for two
days over a small pack of gum versus a lipstick. This was the month I bought
a tiny pouch not much larger that a cigarette case. The lipstick lost and just
barely fit in the closet. I was now afraid to open the door more than a crack,
which saved time on my daily selection of wardrobe. I could reach only three
hangers.
I felt so free walking down the street, both hands swinging, the small
pouch attached to my belt holding all that my newly converted soul found
essential. Walking through a store and not having to worry about being sued
by irate parents whose small child had been knocked unconscious by my
collection of memorabilia was a thrill.
Then it happened. One day, driving home from work, I heard a
newscast about one of the greatest racehorses of our time being turned out
to pasture and to stud. Right there before my eyes and the red light, I
envisioned an elaborate story about Shadow Dancer, whose bad knee
prevented him from racing again. His owners, a heartless syndicate from the
East, sank all their profits into the stock market and to cover their shortages
they had to lease him out to stud in another part of the state, far from his
home paddock. Shadow Dancer became so homesick he couldn't even think
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