As the busiest shopping day of the year approaches, I take a deep breath.
I’m as guilty as any shopper.
If I can get an item delivered to my door in 24 hours, I’ve saved time and pennies.
Spending a few months out of the country has been therapeutic.
I’m unable to order a book or shampoo at cut-rate prices and have them arrive with lightening speed.
Instead, when I order-by-computer, I pay local taxes and federal taxes plus delivery charges—there are no bargains—and items take weeks to arrive.
That means I check the Library for books instead, and borrow my husband’s dandruff shampoo.
That also means a warehouse of worker-bees gets to spend time with families instead of sorting boxes in the mailroom.
As my smugness wanes I scan the New York Times for articles that are uplifting and guide me toward self-betterment.
I find an article on how to brighten your winter and lift your spirits.
Great news: the sun here doesn’t rise until about 7, and sets about 4:30.
And while I get up earlier than the roosters, I feel dead tired before supper.
Hoping to lift the seasonal veil, I dig into the story.
Every article of advice comes wrapped in a product-for-sale.
Want to chase the winter blues?
Buy a bright light.
Want to eat better?
Get a new-fangled blender.
Want to sleep better?
Invest in a sleep mask.
Each chunk of advice has a link to a product you can buy to improve your life.
The articles leaves me dispirited at the linkages of happiness to purchases.
My cure is a walk through the woods behind out house.
In the woods you can breathe and hear birds, and traipse over moss and mushrooms.
Sure: I’m still a little smug. But the smugness comes from the company of the forest, not from the mall.
29 November 2019
National Native Heritage Month USA