So, I suddenly became wildly interested in painting, took up beading, and turned inward. I saw less and less of my friends, and more and more of my T.V.

At night, I never wanted to go to sleep. It was almost as if I wanted to live through and be aware of as much time as possible. I’d turn on the tube during those long nights and watch Leno or Letterman, then a MASH rerun, my late-night program of choice. But when MASH ended each night, there was nothing to do but go to bed -- not an option -- or watch ads on the shopping channel for every piece of crap ever invented under the sun.

I didn’t admit it to anyone at the time, but during one of those hazy insomniac nights, I started buying stuff. It started innocently enough: the “Turbo Tiger” hand-held vacuum cleaner could pick up an anvil, for God’s sake, so it could certainly do wonders removing my cat’s hair from furniture. Plus it was only about $50.

I received the box, and although I didn’t use the vacuum much, I was hooked, intoxicated with the magic of calling in credit card numbers over the phone and receiving a big package in the mail just a week later with a treasure inside. These treasures surely were wonderfully useful tools that would, I thought, help me control some part of my out-of-control life.

The Turbo Cooker was next. This thing used steam to cook all kinds of food, large amounts of it, really quickly and without oil. It could actually bake a cake with steam if you put a Coca Cola in the batter mix instead of oil! I think that one set me back about $50 also—but it came with a cake pan, vegetable steaming rack, and recipe cards. What a deal!

I’d also given up exercising somewhere along the way. Not really because of any fear that I’d stroke out during an aerobic workout, but more just because my dark thoughts took up so much of my energy and time. Predictably, I started to gain a little weight—thus the oil-free appeal of The Turbo Cooker.

This is it, I thought one night. I’ve lived this whole life, all the way to twenty-six, and I’ve never been really “hot,” model-skinny, at least not for any length of time. I’ve never been the epitome of American beauty standards. What a waste! I was, of course, watching an ad for a weight-loss program at the time I had these thoughts, and another $150 quietly exited my bank account.

By the time my surgery date, June 11, 2001, rolled around, I was controlling my zits with a televised cream, reading and ignoring weight-loss information perfectly tailored to my body, and living in a cat-hair-free home with more oil-free food than I could consume in a lifetime.

The surgery went well. I healed, and I went home. The future again stretched in front of me like a nearly-endless all-you-can-eat banquet, the way it should for a twenty-something.

I still use my late-night purchases occasionally, but these days I sleep at night instead of watching television. I no longer feel the need to buy something that promises to control my life, or some part of it. I like to think I no longer try to control my life at all. Instead, I just let go, enjoy the ride, and every now and then wow my friends by whipping up a cake using just steam, a package mix, and Coca Cola.

ANNA BRINKMANN is a second-year student in the literary nonfiction program at the University of Oregon.