Free How to Grow Up by Michelle Tea Page B

perfume guy whip up a bottle with my name on it took over.
    While visiting my sister in Los Angeles I realized, as we were wrapping up with brunch, that we weren’t that far from Barneys.I scooted through Beverly Hills, past Porsches parked brightly alongside the curb, past an ice cream truck selling treats to a little girl who had greeted the morning full glitz—lipstick, dangly earrings, designer sunglasses. Beverly Hills is a circus, and I let myself enjoy the spectacle, maybe even become my own sideshow as I fell into the store and stumbled toward the Le Labo bar behind the racks of sale shoes. The risk was never that I
would
do this, indulge my lust for a pricey perfume. The risk was that I wouldn’t. That the old fear would set in, the
You can’t buy nice perfume, other people do that.
The
Buying fancy perfume is a slippery slope, then what will you buy, before you know it you’ll be out on the street!
The
Think of what your struggling mother would say if she knew you just spent $150 on something so stupid.
The risk was that I’d let fear and shame and guilt make the decision for me.
    When I drank, I was wild. My wildness, of which I was so proud, took the form of risk taking. If a man sexually harassed me on the street I would remove a shoe and come at him menacingly; I would follow him in circles asking, “What did you just say? What did you just say?” Once, on top of a very tall building, I climbed a ladder to vandalize a sexist billboard, a can of spray paint rattling in my hand. I was naked and wet, because in addition to a billboard, the rooftop hosted a swimming pool and I’d been skinny-dipping.
    I’m not necessarily
proud
of these moments, and I am very grateful I didn’t accidentally get myself killed. But this urge to identify the most outrageous, slightly dangerous possibility and hurl myself into it—both daring the Universe and trusting that it would somehow hold me safe—has always been inside me. Ithink it’s in a lot of addicts. Life can be scary. On some level it’s scary for everyone, and those layers of scary can really pile up when you’re female, when you’re sort of weird, when you’re broke, when you’re queer. The way life dares and challenges you can just become your day-to-day, invisible. There’s something great about staring solid
Jackass-
style hijinks in the eye and consciously diving in. Acting fearless creates an understanding of yourself as sort of a badass, which generates extreme confidence—which is super helpful when your individual battle to find your place in the world feels more than daunting.
    How is all of this transformed by sobriety? How do you indulge your daredevil demons? How do you challenge yourself to do things that scare you? Some people jump out of airplanes, but that’s not for me. I’m not actually an adrenaline junkie, and I don’t feel the need to face a fear of death. I’m fine with being afraid of death. But my fear of spending money, my fear of betraying my working-class roots, my fear that extreme destitution is always right around the corner no matter how much I work or accomplish? Now you’re talking.
    So I bought the perfume. At home I sprayed a cloud of it into my bedroom and walked through it, letting the mist of it settle on my clothes, my skin, my hair. I fucking love it. It smells like heroin. No, it doesn’t—heroin smells like vinegar, like rot; it smells disgusting. This smells like money. Piles and piles of money, made by some goddessy woman who earned it in her garden or her atelier or her boudoir.
    I wish these games of psychological truth or dare would cure me of my money issues once and for all, but I still get scared a lot,still feel the way my mom felt inside Whole Foods—utterly ignorant of what things cost, but certain that the price is too high for the likes of me. Blind spots loom, always. And a big one was the ultimate