Like almost everyone I know (whether they like to admit it or not), I base most of my decisions on what other people think or rather the reaction I picture them having to my choices. When I put up decorations in my room I picture guests complimenting them or asking me why I chose to stick a T-shirt that reads “Jack Lives Here” up on my wall, which of course will allow me to explain that it is the shirt I wore when I worked at a bar in Jordan this summer, making me look ridiculously cool and worldly.
No need to say of course that I worked as a part-time waitress getting paid ten Dinars a night in cash (which comes out to a little under two dollars an hour) making me slightly more legit than an illegal Mexican busboy that you pay in tips. Nor do I need to elaborate that I took the job in order to fight the depression of spending every night watching entire seasons of The Office with my roommate, fantasizing about all the cool, fun things happening out there where people have friends. No, I just stick to the basic: “Oh that’s my uniform from this bar I worked at in Jordan. Yeah, I was there this summer working for a development NGO but I just did that for fun. Does it sound cool? Oh I guess it was pretty cool now that I think about it.”
And the sad thing is, it really does. Now, as I have come to see it, I spent my summer in exotic foreign places with cool, interesting people rather than in a dingy apartment with broken windows and a mangy cat, working off the hangover from my night of dancing with some sketchy dudes at a second-rate disco as I wait for my roommates to get home from their real jobs so we can watch my bootleg copy of Iron Man. Other people’s approval is like a magical wand that suddenly makes your life enviable when just yesterday you were peaking through your blinds to scope out your neighbor’s party, hoping it would die down soon so you could finish watching The Notebook and pass out early.
Similarly, as someone who thinks they have an impeccable taste in movies, I have stopped myself from making several purchases at Video Paradiso that would suggest otherwise for fear of being wrongly judged by cool video store clerks. Most recently I found a copy of Introduction to Scientology with L. Ron Hubbard for sale in the used movies section and instantly found myself torn between the attention I would get from showing off the hilarious purchase to my friends and the judgment I would inevitably suffer at the hands of the Urban Outfitters-clad, hipster check out guy.
Of course I could explain myself as he rung up my purchases, laughing about how “I just found that on the shelf” and “isn’t it great?” But as I contemplated this I saw myself through his eyes: a closet-freak Scientologist trying to cover up her weird cult affiliation, off to spend her Saturday night vanquishing evil theatons with the help of her life-size Tom Cruise cutout. I thought about the wording and intonation I could use to make it believable that I was merely an avid South Park fan buying this DVD for shits and giggles but every time I thought about going up to the counter I looked down at L. Ron Hubbard’s solemn expression and even I didn’t believe my story.
Instead I went up to the counter with the jackets for Grosse Point Blank and Gosford Park. “Great movies!” the guy said as he walked off to find the corresponding disks and even though I’m sure they are paid to say that – just like your friends are trying to be polite when they pretend that your summer in Jordan sounds really interesting – it still made me feel cool and exclusive, two things which I am absolutely not. Later on I told my roommate about the DVD I almost bought and just as I expected she laughed and talked about how funny it would have been.
"Why didn't you get it?" she asked.
No need to say of course that I worked as a part-time waitress getting paid ten Dinars a night in cash (which comes out to a little under two dollars an hour) making me slightly more legit than an illegal Mexican busboy that you pay in tips. Nor do I need to elaborate that I took the job in order to fight the depression of spending every night watching entire seasons of The Office with my roommate, fantasizing about all the cool, fun things happening out there where people have friends. No, I just stick to the basic: “Oh that’s my uniform from this bar I worked at in Jordan. Yeah, I was there this summer working for a development NGO but I just did that for fun. Does it sound cool? Oh I guess it was pretty cool now that I think about it.”
And the sad thing is, it really does. Now, as I have come to see it, I spent my summer in exotic foreign places with cool, interesting people rather than in a dingy apartment with broken windows and a mangy cat, working off the hangover from my night of dancing with some sketchy dudes at a second-rate disco as I wait for my roommates to get home from their real jobs so we can watch my bootleg copy of Iron Man. Other people’s approval is like a magical wand that suddenly makes your life enviable when just yesterday you were peaking through your blinds to scope out your neighbor’s party, hoping it would die down soon so you could finish watching The Notebook and pass out early.
Similarly, as someone who thinks they have an impeccable taste in movies, I have stopped myself from making several purchases at Video Paradiso that would suggest otherwise for fear of being wrongly judged by cool video store clerks. Most recently I found a copy of Introduction to Scientology with L. Ron Hubbard for sale in the used movies section and instantly found myself torn between the attention I would get from showing off the hilarious purchase to my friends and the judgment I would inevitably suffer at the hands of the Urban Outfitters-clad, hipster check out guy.
Of course I could explain myself as he rung up my purchases, laughing about how “I just found that on the shelf” and “isn’t it great?” But as I contemplated this I saw myself through his eyes: a closet-freak Scientologist trying to cover up her weird cult affiliation, off to spend her Saturday night vanquishing evil theatons with the help of her life-size Tom Cruise cutout. I thought about the wording and intonation I could use to make it believable that I was merely an avid South Park fan buying this DVD for shits and giggles but every time I thought about going up to the counter I looked down at L. Ron Hubbard’s solemn expression and even I didn’t believe my story.
Instead I went up to the counter with the jackets for Grosse Point Blank and Gosford Park. “Great movies!” the guy said as he walked off to find the corresponding disks and even though I’m sure they are paid to say that – just like your friends are trying to be polite when they pretend that your summer in Jordan sounds really interesting – it still made me feel cool and exclusive, two things which I am absolutely not. Later on I told my roommate about the DVD I almost bought and just as I expected she laughed and talked about how funny it would have been.
"Why didn't you get it?" she asked.
"Oh, it was like ten bucks. I didn't want to spend the money."
Of course, both of those statements are lies. The movie only cost three dollars but regardless, I would have spent ten. I probably would have spent more than ten. Not too long ago I bought a bb shotgun for twenty-five dollars to use as a Halloween accessory so yeah, I would spend more than ten dollars on a useless piece of crap. And perhaps some day I will. But for now, if I'm lucky, L. Ron Hubbard sits for me on that shelf, waiting in vain for the day when I am not afraid of looking like an idiot.
