If you don't have a greedy friend, I suggest you run to the nearest mall or WalMart right now, and buddy up to someone, preferably a someone with a packed-to-the-rafters shopping cart or a someone tilting under the weight of ten Nordstrom bags. Tip: You'll recognize the uber-greedies because they're also sloshing a 32 oz. soda as they go thundering down the store aisles.
This is not to say that I'm free of greed myself. As my husband would acknowledge, I can mow through a bag of Pepperidge Farm Ginger Man cookies at warp speed. But, as with all sins, there's greed and there's greed. Being friends with a real pig is helpful in setting your personal greed benchmark, just having like that invaluable dirty friend, who hasn't tossed a pizza box since the eighties, can make you think better of your own crappy housekeeping. Plus, you learn things.
Way back when, before it was fashionable to be enormous, I had a huge friend who owned a car, which I didn't, and she was also something of a slob. A three-fer, in other words: greedy, car, slob. She had it all. When I was around her, not only did I have a ride, I felt like a living testament to The Balanced Life.
One day she offered to drop me off at home, but asked if I'd mind stopping by the grocery with her. Not a bit, I said. Going shopping with her turned out to be a transformative experience, as Oprah herself might say. When we meandered down the aisles, she'd give these sudden ::cries:: Oh my God!! she'd yell, look at that ham!!!! Then she'd lift a giant hock out of the meat case, oh so tenderly, and cradle it like an infant, beaming down at where its face might be, if hams had faces. Sweet Lord! she'd holler when we passed the bakery, Looky here!! Cupcakes!! Lemme just grab this box!!! And she'd stare into the clear plastic container like we were at Tiffany's gawking at a 56 caret rose-cut diamond. And on we went, pausing reverently like pilgrims in front of soup displays, blowing air kisses at Sara Lee cakes, tickling cheeses, etc. My intro to food porn.
Some years later, I became semi-friends with a different breed of greedhead. She was very attractive, worked as a graphic designer from her house, had a scandalous marriage in her past, a rotten teenage kid upstairs, and was born dead. On the wall, right next to the front door, there was a proudly framed news account of her lifeless entry into the world and her subsequent revival. She was also the kind of person who would take you hostage without a single qualm. I just need to run by Dillards, she'd say. Come with me. And I would, only to discover one thing leading into another, until I found myself home, finally, at 10 PM, with nothing in the house but a sticky carton of Chinese take-out for dinner.
My friend drove a big black late model Caddie, and bought stuff in quantity. She'd say she needed jeans, but this really meant she needed 24 pairs of them. She'd tell me she just needed a crew neck cotton sweater, and then bought 50 at one swoop. And on we would slog, buying the improbable amounts my pioneer forebears purchased when they drove into town twice a year. Except she did it every weekend: 36 Lady Hathaway shirts, 200 pairs of cotton socks, 15 pairs of Maine Trotter penny loafers, 200 tortoiseshell barrettes. This was fascinating to me in a lot of ways. First, why so much? (Ans. Because she wanted this much.) Second, why was it all the same dull pastel preppy shit? (Ans. Because dull preppy shit was what she wore.) Third, was this mountain of stuff just for her? (Ans. Yes.)
For me, seeing such a monstrous display of piggery bought a bit of self-forgiveness. After watching my pal buy 73 Ralph Lauren hoodies at one whack, my bingeing on drugstore eye shadow didn't seem too terrible.
But here's the deal: my food friend and my clothing friend would have argued until past sundown that they really needed this stuff. And they believed they did.
But don't believe me. Find your own greedy.
This is not to say that I'm free of greed myself. As my husband would acknowledge, I can mow through a bag of Pepperidge Farm Ginger Man cookies at warp speed. But, as with all sins, there's greed and there's greed. Being friends with a real pig is helpful in setting your personal greed benchmark, just having like that invaluable dirty friend, who hasn't tossed a pizza box since the eighties, can make you think better of your own crappy housekeeping. Plus, you learn things.
Way back when, before it was fashionable to be enormous, I had a huge friend who owned a car, which I didn't, and she was also something of a slob. A three-fer, in other words: greedy, car, slob. She had it all. When I was around her, not only did I have a ride, I felt like a living testament to The Balanced Life.
One day she offered to drop me off at home, but asked if I'd mind stopping by the grocery with her. Not a bit, I said. Going shopping with her turned out to be a transformative experience, as Oprah herself might say. When we meandered down the aisles, she'd give these sudden ::cries:: Oh my God!! she'd yell, look at that ham!!!! Then she'd lift a giant hock out of the meat case, oh so tenderly, and cradle it like an infant, beaming down at where its face might be, if hams had faces. Sweet Lord! she'd holler when we passed the bakery, Looky here!! Cupcakes!! Lemme just grab this box!!! And she'd stare into the clear plastic container like we were at Tiffany's gawking at a 56 caret rose-cut diamond. And on we went, pausing reverently like pilgrims in front of soup displays, blowing air kisses at Sara Lee cakes, tickling cheeses, etc. My intro to food porn.
Some years later, I became semi-friends with a different breed of greedhead. She was very attractive, worked as a graphic designer from her house, had a scandalous marriage in her past, a rotten teenage kid upstairs, and was born dead. On the wall, right next to the front door, there was a proudly framed news account of her lifeless entry into the world and her subsequent revival. She was also the kind of person who would take you hostage without a single qualm. I just need to run by Dillards, she'd say. Come with me. And I would, only to discover one thing leading into another, until I found myself home, finally, at 10 PM, with nothing in the house but a sticky carton of Chinese take-out for dinner.
My friend drove a big black late model Caddie, and bought stuff in quantity. She'd say she needed jeans, but this really meant she needed 24 pairs of them. She'd tell me she just needed a crew neck cotton sweater, and then bought 50 at one swoop. And on we would slog, buying the improbable amounts my pioneer forebears purchased when they drove into town twice a year. Except she did it every weekend: 36 Lady Hathaway shirts, 200 pairs of cotton socks, 15 pairs of Maine Trotter penny loafers, 200 tortoiseshell barrettes. This was fascinating to me in a lot of ways. First, why so much? (Ans. Because she wanted this much.) Second, why was it all the same dull pastel preppy shit? (Ans. Because dull preppy shit was what she wore.) Third, was this mountain of stuff just for her? (Ans. Yes.)
For me, seeing such a monstrous display of piggery bought a bit of self-forgiveness. After watching my pal buy 73 Ralph Lauren hoodies at one whack, my bingeing on drugstore eye shadow didn't seem too terrible.
But here's the deal: my food friend and my clothing friend would have argued until past sundown that they really needed this stuff. And they believed they did.
But don't believe me. Find your own greedy.
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