Small Sins May Be Worth Slowing Down For Pleasure

I walked out of Anthropologie this week with a simple book, Seven Sins for a Life Worth Living. 

It’s a dangerous little read for Americans. So many of us believe that keeping our nose to the grindstone insures happiness in the hereafter, if not the herenow.

Unlike the French, we’re not a nation of slackers. In fact, herenow is not a word in the English language.

Rewriting the Dictionary

Walt Whitman wrote: “I believe in the flesh and the appetites. Seeing, hearing, and feeling are miracles, and each part and tag of me is a miracle.”

My journal attempts to make sense of these small pleasures.

Like Seven Sins author Roger Housden, I believe that this earth “is a good place to be, despite all the troubles that come with the assignment.” Indeed, deep pleasures often do come with “having a body that angels will never know”.

The Red Menace

The very mention of deep pleasure to most Americans, conjures up visions of out-of-control hedonism and senseless debauchery. In fact, deep pleasure is equally about teddy bears and pie for breakfast.

Housden’s list of sins is simple:
    • the pleasure of all five senses
    • the pleasure of being foolish
    • the pleasure of not knowing
    • the pleasure of not being perfect
    • the pleasure of doing nothing useful
    • the pleasure of being ordinary
    • the pleasure of coming home

For a high achiever like me, ticking off this list is a formidable challenge.

Adopting the Right Attitude

Waiting to pay for my Anthropologie read, I spotted an adorable assortment of whimsical, stuffed animals, all waiting to be donated to needy children in New York. One was sweeter than the other, and I couldn’t resist a cuddly, chenille teddy bear.

The emotional pleasure of the gesture grabbed my heart. Holding the book as a gift to myself, but letting go of the teddy bear as my gift for someone else, the book expressed its own meaning.

A Guiltless Pleasure

The donation wasn’t given out of obligation or my fear of being turned away at the pearly gates.

I imagined the pleasure my donation would bring to its new owner, an imaginary child hugging this little bear, so flip-floppy that it would ride easily on his shoulder. Weightless, the white slubby creature could lie on her stomach, counting firefies under the stars.

Teddy Bear Joy

I doubt that real angels know the joy of teddy bears. We want to think so, but I’m skeptical.

Angels don’t know the pleasure of having a small, steadfast friend, one that will never judge this little person, a bear waiting at the end of every day with open arms. In fact, my gift will soon smell like that child, when they are inseparable, taking constant pleasure in each other’s company.

My dear friends, perhaps I’m wrong here. I just Googled “does God judge angels” and got no answers. Feel free to comment.

Second Act

Inspired by my new book, I ventured out to make a second new friend this week. The results were cataclysmic.

This person, so normal yet so unorthodox, persuaded me to eat the smallest amount of pecan pie for breakfast and explained to me how to use leftover wine to poach eggs morning, noon and night.

I seriously doubt that angels eat pecan pie for breakfast.

Total Heresy

Pecan pie has not enjoyed my delicious lips for over 25 years. Yet, my mouth salivates with sensational denial, and my tongue savours the sweet, sticky, thick consistency of my mother’s excellent pecan pie, baked on Saturday but eaten on Sunday, the day of our Lord.

Now, out of the blue and in pursuit of a sin worth living, I enjoyed pecan pie for breakfast … six, divinely delicious small bites.

My artist friend, a passionate sensualist, who has perfected the art of small dinner parties, photos of gorgeous sunsets or 5am sunrises, and exquisite lighting techniques tempted me with a few morsels of Paradise … a totally original sin … and I took the apple.

Highly Productive Conversation

Touching, tasting, laughing, listening, seeing … enjoying the uniquely human qualities of this person, I didn’t turn off my Blackberry, but I also didn’t look at it for hours.

We shared can-you-top-this “American in Paris” stories, and I asked: “Is it true that the French produce more per man-hour than the Americans? That France is the fourth largest economy in the world … with all those vacations, unions and countless holidays?”

The answer is yes.  How can the French be so productive, and how come we never talk about it in America? I thought the French were losers. Just kidding, everyone. We all know that I LOVE France.

Learning to Listen

Bottom line, the French have learned to have their cake and eat it, too.  And they’re far less obese than we Americans. It’s time for genuine, committed rapprochment between our two countries; and we Americans must listen for once.

The French phrase joie de vivre is very much about herenow.

On that note, I intend to take my own advice. You’ll find me in South Beach later this week.

The World Turns

Alas, nothing stays the same. My August suite at the Regent South Beach, now called the Vincci South Beach, is $750 a night. Too pricey for this working girl.

You will find me at the Metropole, described as the most “sleek and sober” property in the South Beach Hotels group.

In my pursuit of a life worth living, I promise to rewrite the PR copy, starting with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

Love,
Anne

PS: send bears and not gummy ones … warm and cuddly please