Self-Indulgence

Very few, at least of those that run in my circle, would argue with the notion that there is an assumption about Americans in general as self-indulgent. When one of us goes abroad, we usually return to sing the praises of those fit-as-a-fiddle Europeans who do not over-indulge in fast-food, and who do not buy ridiculously large gas-guzzling vehicles, and who do not live in homes that are three and four times the square footage of what any reasonable individual needs.

We come home to airports largely filled with fat people in sweat pants and commence a weeks-long admiration for those beautiful Bohemian mavericks across the pond who confidently stroll arm-in-arm despite conventional gender roles and social expectations, and who walk everywhere (just to save the environment), and who educate their mostly brilliant, bilingual children, and who provide healthcare for their poor and their elderly, and who walk their little European dogs and even pick up their shite before they go back home to their tiny, perfect, European lofts. Those Europeans are just faultless, aren’t they? They have their wine and their cheese and they eat it too and they still manage to look perfect in leather pants.

When it comes down to it, I know it’s skewed. But I admit to thinking it and saying it anyway, especially when I’m not feeling particularly proud of my lesser-minded neighbors. So Americans are a little spoiled. And a little self-indulgent. Is it so wrong for an American, a human, to be just a tad self-indulgent? Isn’t that just, well, human? A tad self-indulgent, you say?

self-indulgence: noun
1: an inability to resist the gratification of whims and desires
2: immoderate indulgence of bodily appetites

So that answers that. You cannot be just a tad self-indulgent. Self-indulgence is by definition immoderate. The difficulty comes then in defining the line that separates decadence from a timely treat, a little self-recognition, or just the acknowledgement of one’s own appetites.

I have never been one to long for things, for stuff. When I was happiest in my late twenties, I rented a small apartment, which held little more than one very small closet of basic clothing; I had a mattress on the floor, some books, five CDs, and a few maps pinned to the wall. I have never wanted jewelry or cars or clothes or shoes. Sometimes I am embarrassed by this now. I must make an effort to try and remember to buy shoes before they embarrass my children because they’re hole-ridden and falling off my feet.

Today, my tendency toward self-indulgence includes physical things, but not physical in the leather, gold, diamond, you-can-hold-it sense. They are physical things in the see, touch, taste, smell, you-can-feel-it sense: the stimulating numbness that comes with a second or third glass of wine, the buzz that comes with a cigarette, the relaxation that comes with a two-hour massage. A candle-lit bubble-bath. Chocolate. Sex. Solitude for its own sake. Any of these things can get me all the way or damn close to an orgasmic state, depending on the day’s events.

So all this to say what? What am I saying? I have reached adulthood; I am proud to be a responsible parent of two healthy, beautiful children; I have saved for their college and my retirement. I am a home owner. Do I wish it away? Certainly not. I’m saying that it’s tedious. I’m saying there’s not a lot of decadence in parenting. I’m saying if you’re looking for a utopia of Hedonism, when you find it, they most likely will not be selling diapers at the corner store. I’m not saying it’s not worth it. I’m just saying. And I think it’s worth saying out loud.

I’ll close with one more definition. I often use the word decadent. I like it. It’s a good word.

decadence: noun
1. the act or process of falling into an inferior condition or state; deterioration; decay;
2. moral degeneration or decay; turpitude.
3. unrestrained or excessive self-indulgence.

Decay? Turpitude? That’s pretty serious. I think I’ve been a little extreme. Could a third glass of wine and the occasional cigarette on my own back porch really set loose a series of events that would bring on my own moral devastation? Will a little more vanity, a little less humility, a little more spending, a little less discipline, a little more flirtation really be the end of me? Is one more bite of ice cream really going to launch me into a spiral of depravity? Not likely.

I suppose the difference between the average American and those elegant Europeans is knowing precisely how to walk the line that separates vanity from self-recognition, Hedonism from simply delighting in life’s delicacies, and decadence from, well, from indulging in the ice cream and still stopping short of not being able to button those fabulous leather pants.