day 23: No Knit, I Quit

Ah, the joy of confronting all of one's failures, in the form of one's belongings.

I have this theory that in our ever more consumerist society buying and owning stuff has become our culture's means of self expression. Forget composing symphonies, writing screenplays or painting landscapes; our society's art is getting, and having. In my college days this concept was blatantly, um, illustrated by an erstwhile painter I knew who spent so much time sitting around drinking beer and talking about art he never quite seemed to get around to making any, yet sported an impressive wardrobe of tastefully paint-spattered clothing.

Nowadays I know more than a few people whose entire form of self expression seems to lie in their stuff. They put a great deal of thought into what they own, and what those belongings say about them, but it sort of ends there. It's like the effort of shopping for the accouterments of their desired lifestyle/hobby/avocation uses up all the energy they had for, say, kayaking or playing the guitar.

It's a phenomenon others have noticed. Douglas Holt, a University of Illinois advertising professor, has labeled it "postmodern consumerism". He posits that, in an open-ended project of self-creation, we "play with different identities by consuming the goods and services associated with those identities" -- even if we never actually fully take on said identity. Thus the would-be outdoorsman outfits himself from REI and LL Bean, and even if he rarely steps away from his computer his wardrobe tells you he's ready to go fly-fishing or mountain biking at a moment's notice. It's more than that, too; I work with a woman whose entire personality is summed up by the fact that she owns an expensive German convertible. She quite honestly believes that is sufficient; she doesn't need interests, or to be interesting. She has actually said to me that, about herself, "The car says it all."

So, anyway, I'm far from immune. Knitting has become quite in vogue among a certain strata of alterna-arty hipsters these days, and so a couple years back I aquired knitting needles and some funky yarn. Although I barely mastered casting on I even went to far -- and I cringe to write this -- as to bring my kit to a Charm City Kitty Club performance with visions of coolly knitting and purling while I watched the show. Let's just say it did not go well, and the evidence of this ignominius evening has been stashed in the back of my closet for quite awhile, surfacing every so often just to remind me of my ineptitude and poseur-ness. A woman from the online alterna-parenting group I belong to, however, took the snarl of wool and shame off my hands. Hope it goes better for you, Catherine!