#GIRLBOSS (8 page)

Books were an easy entry point for a novice shoplifter like me. Each time, I checked Amazon to see what the top ten bestsellers were, then made my way to a big corporate bookstore, waltzed up to the front table, grabbed a stack of that bestseller, and waltzed right back out with as many as I could carry. Why didn’t I conceal my crime? Under Mack’s tutelage, I learned that the more you tried to hide, the shadier you
looked. The best thieves are so obvious that they don’t even raise a brow, and with a stack of hardback thrillers under my arm, I was just another employee organizing the merch.

Once I got home, I listed the books on Amazon for ten cents less than everyone else, and they sold out overnight. Then I packed them up, shipped them out, and had a couple hundred bucks to pay my rent. In my mind at that time, I wasn’t doing anything wrong because I was stealing from corporations and not from people.

#GIRLBOSS, this is where I call bullshit on myself. I
was
stealing from people. I took an inspiring quote from Chief Seattle (“But how can you buy or sell the sky? the land? [. . .] If we do not own the freshness of the air and the sparkle of the water, how can you buy them?”) and twisted it to justify my own purposes.
Nobody really owns anything
, I thought. I had deep discussions about how I didn’t believe in “property.” It was the world—not my shoplifting—that was really messed up. In the words of another famous West Coast philosopher, Ice Cube, I needed to check myself before I wrecked myself. Unfortunately, it took a while before this happened.

I stole anything—expensive wine, spirulina, once even a rug that, when rolled up, was taller than I was. I was constantly adding new techniques to my repertoire. There was left-handing, where you paid for one small, cheap thing with your right hand while holding something more expensive in your left hand that you didn’t pay for. No one’s watching the cash registers for shoplifters, and if someone stopped you on your way out, you could just pretend to be a total bimbo:
“Oh, my God, what was I thinking? I’m so sorry; I wasn’t paying attention at all,” then hand whatever you were trying to steal right back. No cops, no fuss.

Some of my schemes were more elaborate, like one I ran on a major art-supply chain after Mack and I had learned that their computer systems weren’t synced from store to store. Each time, I went in and got two sets of the most expensive oil pastels I could find. They usually ran about $100. I put one in my bag and then walked up to the register to pay cash for the other one. I was super-chatty while I was checking out, telling the person ringing me up that I was buying this for my mom’s birthday, but was nervous that my sister was getting her the same thing. Mind you, I don’t even have a sister, so I’m sure this one carved me out a special place in hell. Then I left with two pastel sets and one receipt.

Five minutes later I walked back in acting flustered and found the same person who’d just checked me out, to whom I explained that my sister finally called me back, and sure enough, she got Mom the same thing! When I was asked for my receipt, I acted baffled. “I don’t know,” I said. “I thought it was in the bag?” This store’s policy was to refuse refunds without a receipt, but as I’d just been there and they remembered me, they always gave me back my $100 cash.

Then I left the store and headed straight to another location to return the second pastel set, this time with my receipt, for $100 in cold hard cash. Like I said:
a special place in hell.

When I finally got caught, I was living in Portland, Oregon. I was at a large chain and had made my way around the store,
filling my shopping cart until it was practically overflowing with stuff, having carefully picked the security sensors off each and every item before heading out the front door. The haul included a George Foreman grill, a basketball, fancy shower curtain rings, hair products, and tampons. I’m embarrassed to write this now and not because I’m the kind of person who’s embarrassed by tampons, but because getting caught stealing a box of OB is probably what we would all agree was a low point. This time, my walkout technique finally failed. As I pushed my cart of goodies across the parking lot to my parked car, a guy came running up and trotted beside me.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” I said back, my heart pounding as it dawned on me that he was a loss-prevention employee, in place specifically to catch people doing exactly what I was in the process of doing.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, you know, just back to my car.”

“Actually, no, you’re not,” he said, “You’re going to come with me.”

I panicked and pushed the shopping cart in front of him as I bolted to my car, but not before he grabbed my purse off my shoulder—and with it my entire wallet, complete with my driver’s license. I made it out of the parking lot and all the way home as I watched my outlaw lifestyle fade quickly into the distance.

I was twenty years old and decided that a life of crime was not for me. In typical ballsy form, I drove back to the store, walked up to the customer service desk, and said, “I’d
like to speak with your loss-prevention people. I just stole from you.” It was humbling and humiliating and a huge wake-up call. Fortunately, I got off easy. The store tallied up what I had stolen and fined me, which saved me from actually getting in trouble with the law.

This part of my life was probably the ultimate low. I had an alcoholic boyfriend and I frequently found myself in trashy situations like this one. I thought to myself,
This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me
. Except that it did, and it was. I had always wanted to do something awesome, and instead I was just racking up a soap opera’s worth of skanky experiences. Getting caught stealing was the straw that broke the getaway camel’s back. I packed up my shit and drove my U-Haul-renting ass back to San Francisco, determined to do something legitimate and something brilliant. For a long time I kept the piece of paper that tallied up everything that had been in the shopping cart the day I got busted. It was a little reminder of how close I’d been to killing my inner #GIRLBOSS, and of how thankful I was that she lived.

Playing by the Rules. Or, at Least, Some of Them

The only way to support a revolution is to make your own.

—Abbie Hoffman

After that, I stopped shoplifting cold turkey. It wasn’t like I ran right out and got a job pouring concrete, but I told myself
that there would be no more shortcuts, no circumventing the rules. I was experimenting with lifestyles and philosophies that were supposedly “sustainable,” but as it turned out, they weren’t sustainable for me. I eventually came to terms with the fact that living free doesn’t always mean living well, and there are certain truths I had to reckon with. I was starting to realize that I liked and wanted nice things, and if stealing wasn’t going to enable me to get them, I was going to have to try something almost too conventional for me—getting another job.

Being from the suburbs, I’d always equated comfort with ennui, and possessions with materialism, but I was beginning to learn that this wasn’t necessarily the case. Living a comfortable life can allow you the psychic space needed to focus on other, often bigger, things, and when you treat your possessions as emblems of your hard work, they inherit a meaning that transcends the objects themselves. Adulthood was a lot more nuanced than I had imagined it to be and by age twenty-one, I was already outgrowing the life I had thought I wanted. I knew that someday I would be thirty, and imagined that rooting through trash in search of a free bagel would likely not be so cute anymore. You heard it from me first: That Syd Barrett haircut and yesterday’s makeup won’t be cute forever!

In my teens I saw the world in only black and white. Now I know that most things exist in a certain gray area. Though it took a while to get here, I now call this gray area home. I once believed that participating in a capitalist economy would be
the death of me, but now realize that agonizing over the political implications of every move I make isn’t exactly living.

Eventually, I got sick of listening to my friends whine about living in poverty while refusing to get a job. Compromise is just a part of life. We all, at some point, find ourselves either directly or indirectly supporting something we disagree with. There are ways to avoid this, but it generally includes eating roadkill and making tampons out of socks.

I was never one for accepting convention at face value, but through (plenty of) trial and error I have made working hard, being polite, and being honest a choice. It’s as if I invented it! Rules surround all that we do, and no one, no matter how saintly she may seem, follows
all
of them. I choose to obey explicit rules—like, you know, paying for something before I leave the store—but the rules that society implies we follow, well, those are the rules I have the most fun breaking.

I always dragged my feet over the mundane, little things in life. They made life seem like a big hamster wheel. I hated watching my money disappear each month when I paid the bills. I hated cleaning and doing laundry and having to stop to put gas in the car. And oh God, I hated taking out the trash. But if and when your hard work pays off, these things start to suck less. The first time I had enough savings to put my bills on auto pay it was like winning the lottery. Renting a house in Los Angeles with a backyard and my own washing machine was like being in a really happy musical (no, literally, I twirled and cried tears of joy when I moved in). Having someone to help keep my house clean makes me feel like
I’m living in a fairy tale. Suddenly, you may find yourself with yesterday’s underwear clean and folded and the noise of that squeaky hamster wheel fading into the background.

There’s still a part of me that remains from my days of living beyond the law, and that’s my desire to just mess with things. Life is unwritten, like a great big experiment. Why not see how long the red string of my imaginary kite can get? And why not let it whisk me up into the sky with it when my dreams start to become reality? For that, I think it’s worth putting up with making some compromises, and even playing by (some of) the rules.

PORTRAIT OF A #GIRLBOSS:

Alexi Wasser, IMBOYCRAZY.com (@imboycrazy)

I started my blog,
I’m Boy Crazy,
in 2008. It’s a mix of funny self-help stuff and hyper-personal accounts of my love, life, sex, dating, and relationship experiences—all different things that convey the voice and plight of the modern single girl who wants a great life, thinks too much, and feels a lot of feelings. As a result of starting my site, I’ve sold several shows to Showtime, E!, and Amazon. I sell merchandise on my site, have a weekly call-in advice show, contribute to magazines, speak at schools, and basically serve as the big sis you’ve always wanted but never had.

I had no idea I’d end up doing what I’m doing now. I always knew I loved writing and making people laugh. But I went from saying “I want to be a writer” to “I wanna be a model” (I’m not super-ugly and I’m very tall, I swear!) or “I wanna be an actress.” I did all those things, but writing continues to be what makes me happiest. Whether it’s a book, movie, blog entry, or TV
show, I have creative control and it’s way cooler to be a writer than to be an actor saying the writer’s words.

I learned at a young age that people were happy when I asked them about themselves, and I listened and retained the things they told me. I found that by sharing my personal experiences, like through my blog, we’re not alone—that the most shameful, personal, specific things you’re going through are actually universal. You can laugh about it. I want to make a contribution that matters, and I want to be as vulnerable and raw as possible so other people feel less alone. I want to make people happy or make them laugh—even if it’s at my own expense.

I’m still trying to figure out how to balance work and a personal life. When you’re freelance like I am, if you don’t build structure for yourself, you feel like you always have to be working and it’s exhausting. I think this is a constant struggle for every freelance career girl. Make a schedule for yourself that incorporates time for phone calls to catch up with your annoying family and friends, sex with your boyfriend, exercise, dinners, therapy, parties, texting, social networking, mani-pedis, shopping,
and
the work that’s gonna get you
paid
to maintain the lifestyle you so desire! Create boundaries and structure! You have to be your own parent!

As for finding a guy who will support you on your #GIRLBOSS quest, I’ve accidentally dated variations of boneheads, such as the guy who appears secure and confident at the beginning of our relationship, but ends up being completely threatened by and uncomfortable with my personality, career, and how flirty or open my persona is. Another guy blatantly ignored what I do. He took no interest in it at all. I can only date a man I respect, am fascinated by, and consider interesting. If he can’t do the same for me, we have a problem.

Figure out what you love doing and don’t suck at, then try to figure out how to make a living doing that! Don’t be scared. We’re all going to die, it’s just a question of when and how—so be
brave
! You will never regret trying to fulfill your dream! Don’t get caught up in hanging out and drinking or partying. Celebrate when there’s something to celebrate. Take pride in what you do. Don’t do sloppy work. Be the best. Have something original and special to offer that makes people’s lives better. Don’t have sex with everyone in the world you work in. It’s a small world. Good luck.