The Shallow Travails of a Bourgie Debutante

I love fashion. I am an acolyte of the Houses that pique my interest—Dior, Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Fendi, Hermès—and can often be found stepping through their gleaming glass doors to see in person what I first see between the covers of Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar—shoes, bags, jewelry, scarves.

There’s glamour to be found reflected back in the dressing room mirror (Dior); style that is unmistakable (Chanel); and an exclusivity that one might easily feel elevates his status (Hermès) I love it! I have arrived at a moment in my life where I am enjoying the exploration and expression of my style more than ever before. My confidence has grown, even if at times it is still lacking in fearless self-assurance. Of course, being harder on myself than anyone else could possibly be I like to berate and deride myself—not seeing the growth—only seeing how much progress I still need to make. It’s a glass half full, glass half empty kind of thing and I’ve never been an easy optimist.

I’m not afraid to walk through the door as a handsome man in a perfectly fitted black suit opens it for me. If fact, I believe in that moment that I belong there, deserve to be there. I carry myself with an air of confidence: my shoulders back, my chin up, my chest thrust forward, sun glasses firmly in place, resting bitch face perfectly expressionless. My God, I’m Emily Gilmore. But honestly, I feel more and more that my confidence is #FakeConfidence. For you see, the moment a sales person starts to be nice to me (e.g. offering me water or champagne or showing me what I’ve come into the boutique to see) I begin to feel my old familiar feelings of worthlessness and low-self esteem creep in.

I’ve lived, changed, developed, grown, and survived in New York City for 20 years yet the wispy remnants of my small town self continue to tug at me. My previously mentioned lack of self-assurance has me often asking myself the question, “Who do you think you are?” It's classic Imposter Syndrome.

On a recent shopping spree that took me from Fifth Avenue to Madison Avenue then back along the glittering designer boutique-dotted 57th Street, I experienced a wave of good ol’ Imposter Syndrome. 

The shopping experience started out perfectly. I stumbled upon a 60% off sale at Saks Fifth Avenue and met the fabulous Shaniece. Say what you will about sales people in high end stores trying to made a commission. I can tell when those sales people couldn’t care less about me. Shaniece was not one them. She was a riot: funny, catty, honest. Whether she had her eye on a possible commission or not, she made me feel like nothing less than a man who happened to be shopping on a Monday in Saks Fifth Avenue.

From there I made a beeline to Hermès on Madison Avenue. I’d recently become obsessed with owning an Hermès scarf. I needed one. I had a bag that was crying out for one. And it seemed that that Monday was the day. Through the doors with confidence I stepped and gayly forward I strode to the cases where the scarves were displayed in all their colorful silkiness under glass. I was quickly joined by the gracious and gallant Luke, who proceeded to pull out every scarf I had the desire to see even though the first one he showed me was The One. He treated me like I assume he treats any other person in the boutique. He was kind and attentive, knowledgable and generous. I knew that I wanted to spend money in Hermès that day so I didn’t feel as if I was wasting Luke’s time. My confidence was completely connected to the fact that I wasn’t planning to leave without a scarf.

To browse—perchance to buy…or not. There’s the rub. If I know I just want to browse in a luxury boutique I try and make myself invisible. I love attention and yet in a “just looking” situation I try not to attract attention. I hate this about myself. I am trying to cultivate the life that I want in New York City and that includes being able to buy designer pieces from time to time.

As I turned the corner onto 57th Street from Madison Avenue I saw the Fendi boutique. I remembered the fabulous boots from Spring/Summer 2017 that I’d seen Gigi Hadid wear in photographs in Harper’s Bazaar. I wanted to see those boots. I was flying high from my experience at both Saks and Hermès. It seemed like the perfect moment to take my first step inside Fendi and see the beauty in person.

I was shocked to see Maria, the former manager of Maison Margiela, standing in the store. Turns out she now works for Fendi. Having had several conversations with her at Margiela over the past 10 months I felt comfortable enough to proceed with the browsing. But as she took me under her wing, I could feel my “Who Do You Think You Are?”-ness kick in. It was a physical feeling: self-conscious, embarrassed. Maria, and her co-worker, Iris, were being so nice to me. I didn’t feel I deserved it. We were taking about the boots that I had come inside to see and before I knew it I had a glass of champagne and the boots were on my feet. Now let me be honest, that kind of customer service is something that I want even if at times it makes me uncomfortable. It is decadent and evocative of the life that I see in my fantasies. On the other hand, I knew I wasn’t going to buy those boots so I felt as if all the attention being bestowed upon me was actually taking away from the attention that could be paid to other customers. I felt as if I was wasting their time. This was my own doing. Neither Maria nor Iris ever made me feel that way. And Maria, knowing me from a previous boutique, was just being Maria. I spoke with her about how I was feeling. She told me that I should get over that, let it go. If the only way to get better at doing something is to continue to do it then I guess there will have to be more browsing in my future. 

I was walking around Fendi in a pair of boots that mere moments before I had no intention of trying on. And I loved having them on. I was enjoying a glass of champagne. I was living the life I wanted. But I was so concerned with being seen as a fake that I couldn’t fully enjoy my moment of playing dress up. My previous feeling of pure bliss got a mental take down by my feeling of inferiority. I let my low self-esteem and low self-worth sabotage my joy.

Ruts change from time to time. They can fluctuate from deep to shallow to somewhere in between, then back to deep again. That’s what happens to me. I must have been in a shallower portion of my Imposter Syndrome rut while in Hermès because I was happy and unconcerned about the amount of time Luke was spending with me. I didn’t feel as if I was wasting his time. However, I all but fell backwards into the deepest trench of my rut while I was inside Fendi. 

I am no longer living in Population 325 KY. I am no longer the child being chided by his father, “I hope you get a good job when you grow up because you have expensive taste.” I have a good job. I’m conservative with my money until I’m extravagant. But because of my monetarily conservative nature, I’ve figured out how to afford the extravagance. I am Michael Rohrer. I have lived in and created a life for myself in New York City for 20 years. I am not getting “above my raising.” I have bettered myself. Why then do I keep asking myself, “Who do you think you are?” I am aware of my Imposter Syndrome. But I seem to be unaware of how to get past it. I’m betting it will always be there, if maybe just a little less persuasive the more authentically confident I become.

If you noticed in an earlier paragraph I mentioned the word “status.” For me, my ability to afford luxury items denotes an arrival; a step up the rung on the social ladder. This is all preposterous, I know. I’m aware of my own bullshit. I’m kidding no one other than myself. There is no social ladder that I’m climbing. I may be climbing a ladder but it’s the ladder of Delusions of Grandeur. The ability to purchase luxury items—designer labels—doesn’t make me anything more than a man who owns that item. My struggle to belong has somehow led me to believe that my ability to purchase these things makes me a more prominent person. It doesn’t. They’re just things. 

In the April 1965 issue of Harper’s Bazaar, Tom Wolfe wrote a piece entitled “Pariah Styles: The New Chic.” In it he writes of the new aristocracy in New York Society after World War II. How aristocracy is no longer denoted by the owning of property or lineage. He writes of the new aristocracy that they use one trick attributed to the old aristocracy and that is confidence. This confidence is what sets them apart from the “bourgeois striver.”

I’m a bourgeois striver: firmly middle class striving for an upper class guise but often lacking the confidence to maintain the façade. I wasn’t born into the aristocracy of old New York. Hell, I wasn’t born a Blue Blood of old Kentucky. I will never debut. I will never be part of that world. I will never know what it feels like for an Hermès scarf to just be a scarf instead of the scarf. I feel as if I will always remain on the outside, a Bourgie Debutante with his nose pressed up against the glass even as he wears a white ball gown by Dior. I know that in reality buying luxury items means nothing more than I have spent my money on something that cost me a lot of it. The happiness of the purchase stays with me briefly before the little voice in my head starts whispering, “Who do you think you are?” Then the smile on my face fades and my joy dissipates like ash from burned paper floating off into nothingness.

I know I am impeding my confidence and happiness. I know I am preventing myself from achieving and retaining the joy in any given experience. I know I am stopping my excitement in its high heeled tracks. But that sense of “Who Do You Think You Are?” is deeply rooted in my psyche. I know it’s just a glass of champagne. I know it’s just a moment of human interaction where a sales person takes the time to try and build a relationship with a possible client. I know I am not a waste of time. I know I’m good enough to be inside the boutique. I know I am deserving enough to have the things I desire. I know that those things don’t make me who I am. I also know that no matter how many times I tell you what “I know” it doesn’t mean that I believe it. Some days I do. Most I don’t. 

So I’m a bourgeois striver. So what? My father was right, I do have expensive taste. So what? My life is mine. My desires are mine. My dreams are mine. My goals are mine. To have what I want, I know I have to get past my insecurities and live confidently. That’s easier said than done but being aware is the first step toward change, right.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotten my heel stuck in a rung on this ladder and I can’t reach that glass of champagne until I get it unstuck. 

The Prick of Preventative Maintenance

The walls were lilac. From top to bottom. Every inch except the baseboard, which I would say was charcoal gray. The orchids, sitting on a table in front of the window, were in shades that complimented the lilac. I hadn't even realized until I was gone that my violet Michael Kors polo and purple plaid Ben Sherman shorts were dramatic pops of color that coordinated with the walls beautifully. I should have taken a #selfie, but alas, no record of me in this room. 

The color was tranquil, calming. The perfect choice for a small doctor's office where behind a frosted glass door the impending prick of a needle to the face awaited me.

I was nervous as I sat in the waiting room filling out the patient history form, reading of the possible side effects, signing my name in acceptance of the knowledge. 

However, once behind the frosted door myself, I was excited. My nerves seemed to be pushing me forward instead of holding me back. I had been curious about this for longer than I can remember and I'd had this appointment for 2 weeks. The time was upon me. I had “come up to the lab” and was the one “on the slab.” It was my turn. I sat patiently as the nurse practitioner explained the different areas in which the Botox can be injected. I listened to her explain about some of the possible side effects, which I had already read about while sitting in the lobby. Then, being a short woman, she stepped up on the step at the end of the “slab,” her needle in hand, my face it's destination.

I should tell you that I probably didn’t really need the Botox injections. Typically no one guesses my age. And when I tell them I’m 43 the reaction is usually one of genuine surprise. My sister is often commenting about the lack of wrinkles on my face. Moisturize, moisturize, moisturize. The truth is, I take care of myself. Along with moisturizing, I eat a healthy diet and aside from my one cup of coffee each morning I drink nothing but water the rest of the day. Yes, yes, I imbibe in alcoholic beverages, but not to the point of excess and mostly it’s red wine anyway. Even a doctor will tell you that a glass of red wine is good for your heart. When I told the nurse practitioner my age and that most people were surprised by my number she agreed saying the I had a “baby face.” I should have coo’d, but just smiled instead. I took it as a compliment. I talked to her briefly about the lines beginning to form on my forehead and how at the end of the day they are deeper than I would like. 

Five injections later it was over. This procedure I’d been anxious about for two weeks was completed before you could make a dirty vodka martini. The needle was tiny. After the first injection I had been so surprised at its lack of sting that I had to convince myself it had actually happened. In my head I had created various possible scenarios of pain, stinging, and pressure. But the truth is, the injections didn’t really hurt. The reality came no where near the possibility I had created in my head. (Note to self: this is usually true in all aspects of life. Learn this lesson!) The nurse kindly wiped away the blood from my forehead and sent me out the door with botulinum toxin attaching to my muscle fibers, preparing to work its magic. 

I can’t lie, I was giddy with excitement. I had confronted my fear of a needle-to-the-face and the idea of “freezing” a part of me that is a hub of expression. Now I just had to wait for the final results. I was informed it would be 2-3 days for the effects to start showing themselves and 2 weeks to be fully realized. That was new information for me. You see, I was under the impression that I was going to walk out of the office with frozen?, numb?, paralyzed? muscles. I had no idea what that was even going to feel like. I mean the thought of not being able to move my forehead at all was one I couldn’t quite comprehend, but as you can see from reading this, it wasn’t enough to deter me from doing what I set out to do. I just figured I would deal with it.

Listen, I know that elective cosmetic procedures aren't for everybody. I didn't even know if they would be for me. But I'll admit it: my vanity gets the better of me. I’m not ashamed of that. And now those lines that maybe no one other than me could truly see are less visible. I see nothing wrong with maintaining my youthful appearance. It’s preventative maintenance. I’m not “frozen.” I can still express myself. And at the end of the day, stress is no longer visible on my forehead in the lines of a furrowed brow. 

Self-Absorbed (Or General Dumbassery)?

This piece also appears on HuffPost Comedy

Are we all so self-absorbed -- our attention span like that of a toddler -- that we can't pay attention to the announcements continually repeating the same information? In an age where we can't seem to do anything without our smart phones how dumb have we all gotten?

I recently had to report for jury duty. There were wall signs all over the juror waiting room stating: No Cell Phone Use In This Room. We were verbally instructed that if we needed to use our phones we were to step out of the room to do so. We were instructed that we weren’t to tweet, play games, check our email, take pictures, or record video. We were instructed to turn them off, not just silence them. These verbal instructions were announced over the loud speaker. An excuse of not hearing didn’t apply.

I sat judgmentally (I know I know, judge not lest ye...yet there I was unable to follow that easy instruction) shaking my head at the number of people that had to be told repeatedly to turn off their cell phones. I’m guilty of being addicted to my twitter feed, checking my email, and playing too much Words With Friends, but I powered down when I was told to do so and settled in for the hours of waiting that were ahead of me. It was almost a relief of sorts to be unreachable. It’s kind of like when I’m at the gym. The phone is locked in my locker and I’m on my own time. With my phone powered down in the jury room, I was free to sit with my own thoughts; initially taking interest in the process happening around me then later, focusing on a magazine to relieve the boredom.

I watched in amazement as one of the perspective jurors in the jury room stood talking on her phone merely minutes after a security personnel team member made yet another announcement about NOT using cell phones in that room. When the security team member saw the woman, she asked, "Ma'am are you talking on your cell phone?" The question went unacknowledged. The woman on the phone gave no indication that she was the person being asked the question. As the security team member approached her she quickly ended her phone conversation and smiled at the woman. Her smile was one of those Oops-I-didn’t-think-No-Cell-Phones-applied-to-me-Sorry smiles. The security team member wasn’t amused. She had the patience of Job, but she didn’t care about anyone’s excuses and as nicely as possible I heard her tell people so. I loved her.

It is the smallest thing to turn off your phone (or to silence it if turning it off is too anxiety inducing for you). You don’t even have to remember it outright. When you go to the movies there’s a visual on the screen with an announcement. When you attend a live theatrical performance a bodiless voice fills the theatre instructing you to turn off your phone (and unwrap your candy). When you’re sitting in the court room before starting voir dire a person standing in front of you reminds you to turn off your phone. All you have to do is pull it out of your pocket or purse and turn it off (or at least silence it). That’s all. In that moment when cell phones are mentioned, you check yours and make sure it’s off or set to silent. But inevitably an obnoxious ringer rings or clangs or beeps or chirps. 

I was sitting in voir dire (the examination to ascertain a juror’s competence) when that inevitable happened -- the unique, muffled sound that has become so familiar when someone’s purse starts ringing. The judge’s instructions were interrupted. Concentration was broken. All eyes tracked toward the sound. Frustration was writ large on many faces. It’s understandable. We are connected to the world, but not to what’s happening in front of us. We don’t think those posted placards and announcements apply to us. 

Sitting on a jury panel, instructions are of the utmost importance. One has to pay attention, listen to the details. Can we pay attention enough when we’re dying to check Facebook for the latest cat video? Can we take the fate of someone else’s life into our hands when we’re so self-absorbed that we need to check-in via foursquare? I’m being dramatic, but I’m being dramatic to make a point. As a juror, we have to be able to discern between true and false. If we can’t be bothered to follow the simple request of turning off a phone, how can anyone expect us to follow all the information being given to us via testimony then use that information to render a decision of guilty or innocent.

We will walk down the sidewalk (or into the street) texting or reading on our phones expecting every one around us to move out of our way because we’re too busy in our own world to be bothered with our surroundings. During the opening monologue on the May 15, 2013, episode of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, even Jimmy Kimmel mentioned how texting-reading-emailing while walking is a normal action that takes place on the streets of New York City. His joke: he wants to develop a car made from Nerf material so he can “bump” these oblivious, self-absorbed people and give them a scare. Sounds good to me. I myself want to run into them on the sidewalk more often than I want to move out of their way. I walk and text myself, but I am constantly looking up to see where I’m going and more often than not I’m walking along the curb when doing so as opposed to down the center of the sidewalk. These texting-reading-emailing walkers are like people with huge umbrellas that have no idea how to maneuver in New York City. I made a decision a long time ago that I was tired of bending my umbrella to accommodate theirs. Now I just let the umbrellas collide with no remorse and no decline in my stride.

Our phones have become an extension of our hands. We don’t know what to do without them. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to rewind a scene I missed in an episode of one of my favorite television shows because I was checking my twitter feed or looking at Instagram. So many times that I’ve started trying to leave my phone across the room or in my bag when I’m watching television. And God forbid I forget it at home: let the anxiety begin. I’ve been late to work before because I chose to walk the 7 minutes back to my house from my subway stop after realizing that I didn’t have it. This is because I didn’t want to miss anything -- texts, tweets, Facebook comments -- not because I felt I needed it in case of an emergency. I’m shaking my head at myself.

For those brief periods when we’re asked to turn off our phones (at the movies, at a Broadway show, in the jury box) we should do it. Detach for those few hours. Focus on the reality of the present moment. It ain’t deep. Don’t panic. All the voicemails and texts and tweets will be waiting for you when you get the chance to power up again. It’ll be like Christmas morning. 

The Next Stop Is...

As I stepped off the bottom step into my subway station I noticed I was missing a train. It was literally discharging itself of passengers and shutting its doors. My first thought was "shit!" Which I uttered aloud. Then I saw the letter on the train. It was a bold face R in the middle of a once-bright-but-now-dingy dirty yellow circle. I couldn’t believe it. The R train had not been in service since Hurricane Sandy ripped through NYC leaving a flood of devastation and power outages in her wake.

Almost immediately following the R train was an M train. Another train I hadn't seen in a week. My initial reaction was one of relief at its emptiness. NYC had been so limited in its train service that for four days getting to know your fellow strap hangers was not an option; it was a given. Crowded trains were the only trains. Thank God there were crowded trains. In a City that thrives on mass transit anything was better than nothing. 

My train car had three riders including me. I cautiously sat down, prepared, as I had been for the last three days, to listen to the announcement for stops and service changes. 

Was there ever a more welcomed sound than the automated female voice of the train calling the stops? It was the sound of normalcy returning. She calmly and soothingly called the stops, including stations where service had been suspended for days.

It was but a small gift considering all the devastation that still exists, but sometimes the smallest gift can bring the most joy.

Upon Reflection...

***the below is a piece I started in July 2012 but never published***

Upon reflection...

To spend a week alone on an island full of strangers is an intimidating prospect. I was daunted. I was nervous. I was anxious. I was excited.

Upon reflection...

What was there to fear? I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to do. I wanted to do more than I did. I won’t often give myself permission to experience the life I want to experience. 

Upon reflection...

I’m the only person who stands in my way. Worrying about the way people perceive me is such a detriment to living my life. I’m so thankful that I managed at times to place worry in the back corner of my mind. Doing so allowed me to take off my clothes and experience the freedom of being nude on the beach. Basking in that moment of nudity nobody else mattered; worry or concern about what other people might be thinking about me didn’t pack the same punch I would normally let it pack.

Upon reflection...

Saying hello to strangers is one of the surest ways to put a smile on my face especially when the stranger says hello back (who knew?). On the flip side, when the stranger ignores me like I didn’t just speak, well, that pisses me off like you wouldn’t believe. Thankfully, in Cherry Grove almost everyone spoke or acknowledged one another with a smile or a nod of the head. It’s nice to be acknowledged. Living the on-the-go, focused life of a New Yorker doesn’t allow for moments of looking into the eyes of another person, moments of actual connection.

Upon reflection...

The vacation truly ended when I stepped on the crowded Manhattan bound train in Sayville, NY. Strangers no longer spoke to one another. Generosity seemed to leave us somewhere in the ocean on the ferry ride back to the mainland. There were more people than seats available on that train. Seats without bodies held luggage or propped feet. In some instances a single person lay across two seats reading or pretending to sleep. (I say pretending because I saw the eyes open and close and avert - I’ve played possum before myself so I recognize this traincentric selfishness.) No one offered their nonhuman occupied seat to the old lady or the father with two children - not the people who were lying down on two seats; not the ones who had their luggage in the spare seat; and definitely not the lady whose feet were propped up in the seat across from her. No one seemed to want to relinquish their hold on the spoils of getting on the train early. I observed as they watched person after person search for a place to sit down. I observed as they stopped making eye contact. I observed as they sat by and allowed people to stand with luggage in the cramped aisles and baggage area.  

Welcome back to reality. Welcome back to New York. Welcome back to the place where I chose above all others to make my life. It’s a love/hate relationship that I would trade for the world.

Island to Island

***the below is a piece I wrote in June 2011 but never published***

“Every day is a gift even if it sucks.”

I have been reflecting upon my week (June 2011) spent upon the glorious island of Martha's Vineyard. The one thing I can say without a doubt that I noticed upon being back on my home island is that the people are different - more guarded, more closed off, and definitely more rude.

We don't look at each other here. I started my Vineyard vacation with my eyes averted from one on one contact, but I quickly saw the difference in the people. Vineyardites actually said, "hello" and "good morning" to the familiar and the stranger. What a difference. I've been living the NYC life for so long that my normal is ignoring. My normal is not acknowledging. My normal is walking down the street with my iPod blasting, tuning out the world. Tuning out the bullshit of city noise is not a bad thing, but missing the sounds of the birds chirping or the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees is a pity of a sacrifice.

People are selfish, all of us in some way or another. For example: on the subway, iPod’s are played too loudly, conversations are conducted across the car. When we don’t pay attention to what we’re doing we’re sharing our entire lives with those around us. If we were aware of other people we would realize that many of us are just trying to mind our own business, read or grade papers, or contemplate the day ahead or just completed. Respect is what we don't have for each other.

I don’t want to hear your gangsta rap. I don’t want to hear your bipolar rant. I don’t want to hear you pushing your religion. I don’t want to hear about your boss or last night’s date. I just want to read my book, enjoy my coffee, and make my way to work or home. Of course, it’s a free country and there’s not much one can do about their surroundings when trapped in a subway car in a tunnel between Manhattan and Queens.

The people on the Vineyard have respect for each other and their island. I wouldn't even allow myself to spit gum out in the woods on the Vineyard.  I had this image in my head of some forest creature choking to death on the discarded gum or of the area in which the gum landed rotting away. That last image sure makes me look like I have toxic saliva. You get my point though, right? The space was too precious; nature too important. 

New Yorker’s can be rude and obnoxious. (We can also be kind and generous.) The rude and obnoxious label most often goes to the young people who strut around like they’re tough as shit and ain’t gonna take smack from nobody. I witnessed four of them in a row jump the turnstile at my subway stop on my first day back to work post vacation. I paid the new outrageous price of $104 for an unlimited monthly metro card so that I can ride the train. I guess my price includes the freeloaders. Thank you MTA for your higher prices and staffing cuts. I appreciate paying for it.

Two of the aforementioned jumpers proceeded to get the attention of a female they knew waiting across the tracks on the uptown side. She didn't have time for them. They honestly were such stereotypes that it was amusing as hell to watch her use her words to put them in their place. Of course, they referred to her as a bitch the minute they boarded the train to Manhattan. I guess because she wasn’t buying into their Rico Suave game she couldn't be anything else. Good for you girl for knowing there’re better guys in the world.

So, in an effort to recapture the spirit of the Vineyard I chose to go iPod free on my first day back to work. I listened, I observed. 

What I observed and heard made it difficult to hold on to my week of leisure, but I will always have the memory of life in the glowing sunlight, cool breezes, and “hello’s” from perfect strangers with no agenda on an island in the Atlantic.