ENOUGH ALREADY

ENOUGH ALREADY

How much is enough? Less than you might imagine. I wrote a tale five years ago after a particularly disgraceful incident in my life. It all transpired because of my unquenchable desire to shop. I have since gained a good bit of ground in this struggle and manage now to steer clear of most shopping temptations. But reading the account again, the humiliation of the situation comes back with crystal clarity. I hope that you have never had to learn a lesson about deceit and abundance with as much embarrassment as me. And I hope for your grace as you try not to judge my preposterous actions too harshly.

One might think that by age 43, I would have learned more concretely that deceitfulness is not a good thing. With a child in college, it has become more important than ever for me to manage household finances wisely. This is a problem for a shopper like me. I don’t just like shopping. I absolutely love shopping. It is an illness, a poison, a curse, a plague, an unfathomable and ridiculous struggle; an enlightened person might label it addiction. 

I have been trying for months to attend a Silpada jewelry show. The company’s name is just another word for fantastic silver jewelry, tastefully designed to catch the eye and empty the wallet. Several friends have had showings in their homes. Despite countless invitations I have almost always had something else on my calendar and should have taken that as a sign. A few weeks ago I finally managed to plan my life around a showing at my friend Charla’s house. 

Being the skillful shopper I am, I had perused the catalog ad-nauseam and knew precisely what I wanted weeks before my arrival. It was a necklace. The stones were nondescript in color, offering me yet another way to rationalize adding this purchase to the hooks inside my jewelry armoire. It would match practically EVERYTHING in my closet. I gazed at the item repeatedly in that glossy catalog and actually developed something resembling a longing to close it around my neck.  I wanted it and convinced myself I needed it. Knowing full well that my husband would not see this need, I kept it to myself.  This was the first moment of deceit. I knew, but would not admit to myself that the thing that was closing itself around my neck would not be the necklace, but a gut-wrenching craving for that which would NOT make me happy or complete; only sixty dollars lighter. 

Needless to say, I ordered the necklace. Charla’s snacks and other women who also seemed captivated by the fabulous sparkly ornaments were a balm to my guilt, and justification came too easily. 

Yesterday at church, the first wave of discomfort came when Charla handed me my jewelry. Seeing that the necklace was accompanied by a rather long black box, I flew to action immediately. Removing the tiny bagged necklace from the box, I cast all the excess plastic and incriminating paperwork with stealth into the trash can. 

Still holding the black box, I stopped short of tossing it as I noticed its fine quality and knew I would find a use. I shoved it into the bottom of my purse. I didn’t feel good about the whole thing; in fact it gnawed at me several times yesterday. Yet still I imagined that the necklace was going to look marvelous with the suit I was wearing to work the next day and I ignored the irritating distress of my deceit. 

Fully dressed except for accessories, I went down to my purse to pull out the necklace this morning. It was missing. The accusing black box was there, right where I’d shoved it. Had I not been trying so hard to cover my tracks lest I would have to answer some uncomfortable questions about cost, the necklace would have been there too. 

My husband has always been excruciatingly generous with me, which makes it that much worse. If he knew how much I wanted the offending necklace, he would have bought it for me. (All the while thinking it was a ridiculous waste of money.)

I suspect that in my haste to dispose of implicating evidence, I also disposed of the tiny plastic bag containing my coveted piece of jewelry. Confessing the error of my ways to a friend this morning, she stopped by church to check the area. The trash had already been emptied. I called the church office to check on the trash pickup schedule and it looks like I’ll be dumpster-diving in the rain after work today. 

There comes a time when a person has to hang out her dirty laundry. I certainly deserve every bit of angst this situation has caused me. I still have to confess to my husband. Cutting up my credit cards and hiding my check book would probably be an excellent second step. I have everything I need. I just wish the merchandise would stop sparkling. 

Addendum later that night: The necklace was found after 20 minutes of searching in the church dumpster. There was frenzied laughter despite the 12 inches of rainwater, maggots, and the many pounds of Sunday school coffee grounds through which I dug. The confession to my husband went well. He laughed heartily at my lapse and refused to accompany me to the dumpster.