I Am a Commodity

I didn’t say it. My publicist, Dulcinea Hawksworth, did, about me.

I argue that my writing is a commodity, and she agrees with that, but also insists that I, too, as Bryony's author, am a commodity. Because I trust Dulcinea’s judgment, that’s why I’m at the mall with my mother and my daughter Rebekah, 17, when I should be huddled under the covers nursing my cold.

They have talked me into finally using the gift card one of my older sons gave to me four Christmases ago. My throat burns, my head hurts, and my body is really aching, but my mother, armed with credit cards and coupons, is definitely on a mission, since I only do this shopping thing about once every five years (No, seriously).

My oldest daughter, Sarah, who lives out of state, is serving as consultant via cell phone cameras. Rebekah has a supply of water bottles in her purse and feeds me an occasional cough drop. My mother buys me a coffee.

I am a commodity.

In JCPenney, the racks are full of jeans with pre-made holes. Before I decide I’m in style, after all, I catch a glimpse of my image, still dressed in route clothing, as I pass a mirror. I resemble a waif from an Oliver Twist orphanage. I decide to keep my mouth shut.

I am a commodity.

I stand in front of the mirror at Christopher & Banks with an armful of clothes my entourage selected for me and repeat those words. It’s not working. I'm still not believing it. The words of the White Queen from Through the Looking Glass echo in my head.

“Try again,” I hear the White Queen say. “Draw a long breath, and shut your eyes.”

Nope, I still don’t believe it, and it’s not because I haven’t had much practice, either. In a household as lively as ours, I have sometimes witnessed six impossible things before breakfast. I open the door, show off a very nice purple skirt and sweater combination and stare in horror at the khaki pants my mother is holding up.

“I can’t wear that color,” I protest. “I’ll look like I have yellow fever.”

But she pairs it with a navy blue sweater, which offsets the sallow color. The combination actually looks quite nice. It’s one of many clothing battles I will lose that day. The biggest conflict concerned the skinny-leg jeans at Carson Pirie Scott.

“My legs are too bony for these,” I said.

Rebekah and my mother look at each other and roll their eyes. “Some of us would love to have those legs,” my mother said.

“I can’t even move. I feel like I’m wrapped in cling plastic.”

“I’ll get a bigger size,” my mother said and returns with a 6.

I try them on, but they’re too baggy, so it’s back to the 4’s. Once the they’re are paired with a cream-colored turtle neck; a quilted, reversible vest; and a pair of nice, suede boots, I’m relaxed enough that I try on, for a lark, mind you, the size two leopard dress someone had abandoned in the dressing room.

My mother and Rebekah take bets on whether or not I’ll get into it. Ha! I do.
Triumphantly, I open the door. My mother looks pleased (she’s the one who found the dress), and an amazed Rebekah takes my picture with her cell phone and sends it to Sarah. Arghh! Too late!

“Did you include terms of use?”

Rebekah looks blank.

“Great. Knowing Sarah, she’ll probably post that as my new profile picture on Facebook.”

I check when I get home, to be sure, but the only thing Sarah has posted is a link to the music room on the Bryony website (http://www.bryonyseries.com/). The page looks great, and Sarah is highly pleased with her efforts. She's also had a highly productive phone consult with Ed Calkins, the Steward of Tara, but that's for another post.

However, I've been out way too late when I have to get up at midnight and deliver newspapers. Rebekah has offered to put away the entire wardrobe, so I drag myself up the ladder stairs to my attic office to check mail. My oldest son is gone for the night, but offered his chauffeuring assistance for the following night, after the blizzard starts, if I’m still sick.

Oh, and did I mention my mother gave Bryony’s website to every salesperson we met? So, I guess, whether or not I’m a commodity at this point is irrelevant. Right now, I’m feeling pretty blessed with my very supportive family. Even though, my mother's parting remark was, "Next, we'll have to do something about your hair!"

Not the hair!!!