It
turns out a person can buy happiness. Sure, it has a limited shelf
life. This happiness one is able to procure for a price only lasts
for the amount of time you are shopping and roughly 58 minutes after
purchase.
I'm not saying that's always a negative.
For some, the thrill of this particular drug may be the status of luxury alone. For others, the excitement may reside in the inverse cost-to-enjoyment ratio of said tangible find.
But for an even rarer breed, there is the delight of the inconceivable: Clothing based on a dare.
And that is where I found myself one evening last week, trailing after two teenage girls in search of the most outrageous things they could cajole each other to wear, if only under the rose-color lighting and ominously noted "monitoring" of the mall store dressing rooms.
Teen One and Teen Two, occupying opposite mirrored cubicles, spent what seemed like hours flinging one garment over the tops of doors in mock exasperation.
This one wasn't the right fit. That one wasn't the right color. This one was just too ridiculous for words.
"Switch."
They weren't complaining as much as they were compelling each other to venture out into the wild world of absurd fashion. The game is to find the best of the worst and to wear it proudly.
Faux fur, pleather, plaid, puce.
Bring it on.
Anything that inspires the gagging noises they could cough up between jovial twitters, all the better.
They're following the script, playing their designated role in the dressing room drama unfolding: "Who wore it best?"
I may be in the audience, but I cannot judge.
The list of things money bought that I can say with confidence brought happiness along in tow is a relatively brief one. It includes ordinary items imprinted with memories.
A pocket knife, a set of towels, a knickknack I never display. A toy she played with, or a shirt he wore. A photograph strip spit from a machine from before the days of diapers.
These things I may lose track of for a time, but when happened on again they will bring my mind back to a place as if it traveled there by rail.
Whatever guilt I have saved up for lack of fiscal discipline I spend on enjoying small moments.
Like this one.
Where my daughter holds a dress she does not need; looks toward a friend who tells her she looks beautiful in it; and watches her mother, as her mother nods once in agreement. "Will you wear it?"
The question is always hanging above her head.
She knows accepting the terms comes without much of a penalty.The garment might hang like a flag in her closet. It may cycle among her favorite outfits or just gather dust. It's a question that doesn't have a straightforward answer that will be held against her.
Instead, she chooses to put the dress back on the rack, where, in her memory, it will stay even as fashion seasons change.
Happiness can be silly or serious; it can be tangible or ethereal. It may not be permanent, but one can conjure it out of thin air without much investment at all.
I'm not saying that's always a negative.
For some, the thrill of this particular drug may be the status of luxury alone. For others, the excitement may reside in the inverse cost-to-enjoyment ratio of said tangible find.
But for an even rarer breed, there is the delight of the inconceivable: Clothing based on a dare.
And that is where I found myself one evening last week, trailing after two teenage girls in search of the most outrageous things they could cajole each other to wear, if only under the rose-color lighting and ominously noted "monitoring" of the mall store dressing rooms.
Teen One and Teen Two, occupying opposite mirrored cubicles, spent what seemed like hours flinging one garment over the tops of doors in mock exasperation.
This one wasn't the right fit. That one wasn't the right color. This one was just too ridiculous for words.
"Switch."
They weren't complaining as much as they were compelling each other to venture out into the wild world of absurd fashion. The game is to find the best of the worst and to wear it proudly.
Faux fur, pleather, plaid, puce.
Bring it on.
Anything that inspires the gagging noises they could cough up between jovial twitters, all the better.
They're following the script, playing their designated role in the dressing room drama unfolding: "Who wore it best?"
I may be in the audience, but I cannot judge.
The list of things money bought that I can say with confidence brought happiness along in tow is a relatively brief one. It includes ordinary items imprinted with memories.
A pocket knife, a set of towels, a knickknack I never display. A toy she played with, or a shirt he wore. A photograph strip spit from a machine from before the days of diapers.
These things I may lose track of for a time, but when happened on again they will bring my mind back to a place as if it traveled there by rail.
Whatever guilt I have saved up for lack of fiscal discipline I spend on enjoying small moments.
Like this one.
Where my daughter holds a dress she does not need; looks toward a friend who tells her she looks beautiful in it; and watches her mother, as her mother nods once in agreement. "Will you wear it?"
The question is always hanging above her head.
She knows accepting the terms comes without much of a penalty.The garment might hang like a flag in her closet. It may cycle among her favorite outfits or just gather dust. It's a question that doesn't have a straightforward answer that will be held against her.
Instead, she chooses to put the dress back on the rack, where, in her memory, it will stay even as fashion seasons change.
Happiness can be silly or serious; it can be tangible or ethereal. It may not be permanent, but one can conjure it out of thin air without much investment at all.
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