When to Fake it and When to Fendi

When to fake it and when to Fendi...
While in NYC this past weekend, I made two major purchases. :1) a black, leather-woven, Chanel bag and 2) a pair of patent-leather pink Fendi ballet flats. Which one is the fake and which one is the REAL label? Will the real designer please stand up?

And this got me thinking...why do I choose to fake it? I saw many friends this weekend, some whom it's been six months since I've seen, some it's been six years, and then there were some in between. And there were a few that I met for the first time. To which of these did I fake it? At which questions did I smile and nod and say, "great!" Was it to the "what have you been up to?" The "how's the family?" The "how are you?" Are there degrees of "faking it?"

Is it easier when we meet old acquaintances to wear the designer label we think everyone wants to see, even at the expense of something much more authentic? Perhaps there are degrees of authenticity. I find that my personal degrees tend to include many varieties of gray. For example, I have one response to the "how's work?" question which I shade with numerous grays and blacks. When I sigh and smile so nonchallantly with "You know, saving the world, one adolescent student at a time." I'm really saying "Sometimes I feel like nothing I do will make a difference and I'm feeling disparaged that I will never make more money than I do now and I just don't know if it's worth it anymore." Or, when my friends ask about my family, I might roll my eyes with exaggeration and commiserate on the fact that my niece is becoming a teenager when I'm really saying "I'm scared to death that I'll not be able to make it easier for her or help her through the muck and scum of finding yourself; that my life will always parallel the path that my family sets; that I'll continue to live in the same zip code I was born in; that I'll disappoint them; that I'm too stubborn to admit sometimes I felt disappointed."

Faking it is easier and less emotionally expensive. Many years ago, I faked my sense of safety and comfort for that of another. Not too many years ago, I faked happiness and wholeness once again, for the sake of my family. I seem to have very self-sacrificing reasons to fake it, but each time I do, I feel a little of my authenticity slip away. And then there's the greatest masque--when I fake it to myself. I have become so adept at it, that I am now very weary of whether or not I can see the difference.

When I'm in the City, like I was this past weekend, the weariness tends to creep in with its ugly head. I am plagued by the possibility that choices were made to buy the "imitation designer label" rather than pay the hefty price for the authentic crafted Italian leather. It looks like leather, it smells like leather, it even has a label inside that is spelled correctly, but after a day of carrying all of my stuff, the inside pocket is beginning to rip, the paint on the "leather" is fading off on my shirt, and the silver is tarnishing. I look around me and I'll catch a glimpse of myself around the corner, darting across the street, moving in and out of street fair stalls, or flashing through a store front window. Which one is the real me?

I'm not a determinist. I don't believe that things happen for a reason. I believe in human nature--fickle and imperfect as it may be--and choices. Above all--I believe in choice. I don't ask "what if..." I don't say "if only..." I do every once in a while catch glimpses of myself, frozen in a photograph, ghosting through a dream, or slipping into a shadow of a street light. Which one is the authentic me? And when I do, I want to yell out at the girl in recognition....but, what if she doesn't recognize me?

When I catch these glimpses, when I feel the urge to be authentic, I will often spare others the price and offer them a cheaper price instead. It's not that I have no patience to wait for the realness in my relationships to kick in. It's that I'm finding it more and more difficult to continue with the polite vagueness of old acquaintance. Make sense? I need to be me. If not now, then never.

Oh, and the real designer piece is of course, the pink Fendi flats, because my feet will always carry me where I need to go--they deserve only the best. My bags only carry the things I think I need to continue the mirage of what's really inside.