LITTLE THEORIES

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.

I’m smug.

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

Vancouver Island

National Native Heritage Month USA

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