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Abstract

ith spaghetti straps that just wouldn’t stay put? Believe me, there’s Facebook pics to document every wardrobe malfunction I’ve ever had.Therapist: Look, you’re a talented woman. You’ve had a great career, a full life. Why worry about this at all? Just think of the wasted time spent on endless choices whose importance you document as if your very existence depends on making the right one.Me: If I counted up the hours I spent contemplating my sartorial choices, I would embarrassingly admit to the debauchery of the worst kind.I am ashamed. How could I have let myself stray into this endless spiral of looking, seeking, judging, buying, returning, and ultimately deciding to throw out half my wardrobe every six months?Therapist: Agreed then, it is a time suck and you need to let go of this need to use your clothing in this way. It is becoming burdensome and doesn’t serve you well.Me: It is a disorder of the most pernicious kind and so hard to treat. It’s not like I can join AA or something, and truthfully, I’ve never liked twelve-step, ten-step, or any kind of stepping unless I’m stepping out in a dark blue low-cut gown with high stiletto heels and a red senorita carnation embedded in my honey-colored curls.Therapist: There’s nothing unusual about wanting to look one’s best, but the fixation and linkages between attire and social standing are troubling. Are you as obsessive in other parts of your life?Me: I know what you’re getting at. Rest assured, I am neither a narcissist nor a perfectionist, but just fascinated by the process of putting a look together, bringing order to an otherwise disheveled mess. It’s not as if I can just let myself go now. People are

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used to seeing me look a certain way. It’s like I have a personal brand.Therapist: But you’re not a commercial brand, now are you? Certainly, coming here, talking this out is enough to help you see how futile your obsessive efforts are. Tell me, where you like this as a child?Me: I suppose that question would have to come up at some point, you being of a Freudian persuasion, you would want to know if I was like this as a child. The answer is yes and no. I mean, I wasn’t particular about my attire, as we were only required to wear uniforms in grade school.However, the older I got, the more fascinated I became with colors, texture, combinations, and the image they can conjure up. Having absolutely no artistic talent, I resorted to the only skill I had, that of image-maker.I spent almost all of my extra money on putting together the most adorable outfits. Later, I decided on the most attractive, ditching sporty for chic, with a splash of frosty pink gloss. I’m now aiming for classy and sedate; it’s not going well.Therapist: Maybe you need to re-evaluate your priorities and focus on something more important than your appearance.Me: Really, just because we’re quarantined out here in Southampton doesn’t mean I can just go waltzing around Citarella’s in a blue surgical mask. I mean, who will I be without my signature flats and pink headband? My identity is on the line.Therapist: I see; we’re not getting anywhere and time is up.Me: You have been so helpful. It’s just that there’s such little time to make one’s mark in the world. You do understand, don’t you?Thank you for reading. writingforeverydayliving.com</article></body>

Therapy for a New York Fashionista

Fictional therapy session for the image-obsessed

Me: I am an addict. Like all addicts, I have been in denial for such a long time. I’ve tried everything to stop myself from indulging — looking in the mirror, glancing, peeking, posing — looking for the right combination of accessories to compliment whatever image I’m trying to project. I suffer.

Therapist: I see. Maybe “addict” is a strong word. Why do you feel you have to have an image? When did this preoccupation start?

Me: It started early, this obsession with pulling everything together. Looking for just the right shoes, the right heel height, the best shade to elicit a feeling from those who critique my every choice.

Was I going for casual and carefree? Maybe conservative, fanciful, flirtatious, studious? Countless options and one wrong move could forever sabotage a great opportunity.

Therapist: Your need to please others is what is making you obsessed with finding the right “image.” There’s no right or wrong here. It’s your fastidious compulsion with your appearance that is causing a problem for you.

Me: Oh, but there is always a faux pas, isn’t there? Have you ever showed up at an outdoor dinner party in stiletto heels that took inches off your height when they drilled into the grass? Did you ever wear a tank top with spaghetti straps that just wouldn’t stay put? Believe me, there’s Facebook pics to document every wardrobe malfunction I’ve ever had.

Therapist: Look, you’re a talented woman. You’ve had a great career, a full life. Why worry about this at all? Just think of the wasted time spent on endless choices whose importance you document as if your very existence depends on making the right one.

Me: If I counted up the hours I spent contemplating my sartorial choices, I would embarrassingly admit to the debauchery of the worst kind.

I am ashamed. How could I have let myself stray into this endless spiral of looking, seeking, judging, buying, returning, and ultimately deciding to throw out half my wardrobe every six months?

Therapist: Agreed then, it is a time suck and you need to let go of this need to use your clothing in this way. It is becoming burdensome and doesn’t serve you well.

Me: It is a disorder of the most pernicious kind and so hard to treat. It’s not like I can join AA or something, and truthfully, I’ve never liked twelve-step, ten-step, or any kind of stepping unless I’m stepping out in a dark blue low-cut gown with high stiletto heels and a red senorita carnation embedded in my honey-colored curls.

Therapist: There’s nothing unusual about wanting to look one’s best, but the fixation and linkages between attire and social standing are troubling. Are you as obsessive in other parts of your life?

Me: I know what you’re getting at. Rest assured, I am neither a narcissist nor a perfectionist, but just fascinated by the process of putting a look together, bringing order to an otherwise disheveled mess. It’s not as if I can just let myself go now. People are used to seeing me look a certain way. It’s like I have a personal brand.

Therapist: But you’re not a commercial brand, now are you? Certainly, coming here, talking this out is enough to help you see how futile your obsessive efforts are. Tell me, where you like this as a child?

Me: I suppose that question would have to come up at some point, you being of a Freudian persuasion, you would want to know if I was like this as a child. The answer is yes and no. I mean, I wasn’t particular about my attire, as we were only required to wear uniforms in grade school.

However, the older I got, the more fascinated I became with colors, texture, combinations, and the image they can conjure up. Having absolutely no artistic talent, I resorted to the only skill I had, that of image-maker.

I spent almost all of my extra money on putting together the most adorable outfits. Later, I decided on the most attractive, ditching sporty for chic, with a splash of frosty pink gloss. I’m now aiming for classy and sedate; it’s not going well.

Therapist: Maybe you need to re-evaluate your priorities and focus on something more important than your appearance.

Me: Really, just because we’re quarantined out here in Southampton doesn’t mean I can just go waltzing around Citarella’s in a blue surgical mask. I mean, who will I be without my signature flats and pink headband? My identity is on the line.

Therapist: I see; we’re not getting anywhere and time is up.

Me: You have been so helpful. It’s just that there’s such little time to make one’s mark in the world. You do understand, don’t you?

Thank you for reading. writingforeverydayliving.com