The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Apples

We're going apple picking after lunch. M. decided he would rather spend his birthday at home, foregoing the Group of Seven exhibit and the apple orchard, saying that he has already seen most of the GoS stuff, and that apple picking was more something he'd rather do on a cooler day. It's cooler now, and I mentioned apple pie, so he's ready to get picking.

Back in the old days, when I worked on Yonge St. in T.O, the well-to-do would actually come shopping for apple-picking outfits for their kids. It was an event, with them buying things like tweed coats and newsboy caps, doing their best Ralph Lauren interpretations with enormous cameras slung around the father's necks. I used to think it was bloody ridiculous, and still do, because even though I like the idea of going to the orchard to pick our own apples, and we might even take a picture or two, we're not going to be dressing for the occasion like we're being photographed for a spread in a J.Crew catalogue. For me, it is about getting out of the house, and apple pie.

The trouble with a lot of people is that they aspire to project an image. I'm not different, having been caught up in some questionable fashion moments while attempting to appear cool, calm and seductive. In my 'Sisters of Mercy' phase, I had the huge hair and the black Docs and deep red lipstick, and I danced in wicked circles in the alternative club which played their music. Admittedly, I was something of a poser, because although I worked to project an image, I was nothing like it. I was timid and introverted, and the spinning was fueled out of a misguided perception that I could fool everyone into believing I was 'interesting'. The apple-pickers were mostly annoying people with too much money, with mothers who did nothing but frantically flip through their daytimers, despite not actually being employed, and bored looking fathers, who would rather be at work where they were not emasculated by their pleasing, doe-eyed secretaries. They worked to project the image of a perfect family, deluded by the notion that such a unit exists, and could not abide by a Sunday spent in pajamas in bed, with a book and a cup of tea. No, the apple-pickers had an agenda, with the right costume and props on a perfectly timed schedule. One apple-picker came in on a busy Sunday, holding a cell phone to her ear, while struggling to carry several bags with gift boxes inside. She was clearly pregnant, but she was well put together, with obedient, silky black hair and subtly applied MAC makeup, and a long black, cashmere wrap around her shoulders. She hoisted the bags up, making a slight acknowledgement of the sales associate, and continued throwing orders out to whomever was on the other side of her conversation. I remember looking at her hands, with their french manicure and heavy diamonds, and I wondered how she got anything done looking after hands like that. She clicked off her phone and then told the clerk what she wanted, which was to return all the duplicate gifts she'd received and replace them all with new merchandise.

"And I have only a half hour maximum to get this done, so let's be quick about it" she snapped.

The sales associate, in an attempt to be gracious, happily asked when the baby was due.

"I'm in labour as we speak, and I have a booked schedule for the rest of the week, so this is the only time I have to get this done."

Those of us listening turned to one another and shook our heads. Apple-pickers were machines, it seemed. She was not excited or bothered by the pain or the impending birth. She was keeping to a schedule, tending to her image, and I couldn't believe how unlikable that made her to me. Where was the 'now'? Where was the gratitude for good fortune? What was the appeal of a bloody schedule that one of the most amazing events in one's life would be overshadowed by shopping and a manicure?

My sister is an apple-picker wannabe. K. loves the look and the feel and the smell of it. She was the kind of kid who would leave a friend behind if they weren't apple-picking material, and my other sister P., who was the kinder of the two, would pick them off and dust them off, claiming them as her own. Today, a grown woman with a child and another on the way, her weekends are spent beautifying her home, which is fine, except one is usually uncomfortable in her home because of the precision and the magazine gloss on every room. She tries to let things slide, but her image important to her, and she cleans and she primps and she plumps until everything is where it should be, and no one lets out a breath until they make their exit. As she works for an interior decorator, and one who is wealthy, spoiled and out of touch with reality, the apple-picking virus has only intensified in her, spreading from the clients as well as the employer, making her strive for the image even harder.

"You actually like glass doorknobs?", she recently asked me, aghast.

"I think they're lovely," I said flatly.

"You can't have those in your house. You don't live in a Victorian. It's not done", she said, disgusted.

"I don't care," I responded airily, "I like them."

"That's so wrong," she said. "You realize that it will look tacky and people will laugh at you."

"I wouldn't have anyone that shallow in my house," I responded evenly.

And it went on from there. The thing that bothered me the most about the conversation was how I left it feeling unsure about glass doorknobs. Had I caught the apple-picker virus? Maybe I'm just a carrier?

I have always known that none of it ultimately means a thing, but like most people, I find myself caught up in it frequently. I don't know what I should do with my hair, what image I want to project with it. Long feels more like me, but is it 'modern' enough? I like to wear black, but always get compliments when I wear colour, so I find myself consciously looking for greens and reds in a bizarre attempt to please everyone around me, making me wonder if I am sticking with black because I'm stubborn, or if I secretly like reds and greens and have been rejecting them because I don't want to give in to the naysayers, or am I looking for them now because I like the approval. What do I gravitate toward if I take out the perceptions of others?

I've come to realize that I'm not now, nor will I ever be, an apple-picker. I hate cell phones, and blackberries (not the fruit, though they too have their shortcomings, namely too many seeds), conference calls, hot-footed coffee juggling, deadlines and beige walls. I like to take things slow, savouring everything from the taste of M.'s skin, to a good piece of chocolate. I could lie in bed for hours with a book, or cuddle up with a blanket on the couch while watching a good film and eating a bowl of buttered popcorn. I'm not a slacker, I'm way too uptight to be considered lazy, but I see the value in taking things slow, and I don't often care who approves. I like glass doorknobs, and red walls and Coca Cola, and I don't drink diet anything, because if you're going to taste something sweet, I'd rather it be sugar than some sort of chemical. I'd rather show a little meat on my bones than be rake thin from stress and pilates. I see myself as a combination of flaky, artsy aunt (think Aunt Sarah from Six Feet Under) who sees reason in the tides and the shape of the moon, and also the quintessential 1950's mom with a mean nesting instinct. I'm a hedonist in an iron dress. I'm a sometime writer with her share of sad stories, who still comes off as someone who has a fairly level life. I make no apology for either.

I'm going to pick apples today, because I like pie, and I like the smell of them as I pluck them off the vine, and I don't think it matters what I'll be wearing.