consumeriffic

Standing in line at Walmart is a mind-numbing experience on a good day. On the day that you have to stand in that line to return an item and you turn the corner to find that you have managed to stumble in on the very day that your local store has inexplicably decided to replace the two unfriendly but extremely competent women who are usually at the counter with three middle management type men who have absolutely no idea what they are doing…well then, I feel sorry for YOU. Oh, wait – that was me.

As I stood there, swaying gently from side to side, trying hard not to look anyone directly in the eye, for fear of being offensive to one of my fellow linestanders – what are you looking at? I thought the stripes would be SLIMMING! – or one of the incomprehensibly slow employees – no, I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t return a TV after your brother-in-law busted the screen out with a baseball bat – I found myself considering this possibility:

People buy so much stuff at here because you would do anything to make yourself feel better after spending even a few minutes in this eerily white, soul-stealing, florescent warehouse.

I don’t go to Walmart much, even though I live in the homeland. I much prefer the well-designed paradise known as Target, the store that was obviously built just for me. But I digress. During that unfortunate day at Walmart, my thoughts were quickly becoming philosophical. Or perhaps just cynical. Whatever the case may be, I found myself pondering, as I often do this time of year, our culture of consumerism. Over the past year, I’ve made some changes in our household to try to lessen our impact on the earth around us, to do less damage to the world and the people who live in it. But it’s like fighting a huge current. Buying products that are truly good for you and do minimal harm to the environment requires going to specialty stores and paying more. Trying to do laundry for a household of five and running the dryer only when necessary falls somewhere between difficult and impossible. Explaining why you should only drink milk from cows not treated with hormones or use lotion without parabens makes me sound like some kind of lunatic. And, even with all the effort, I’m barely making a dent. I am an upper-middle class suburban white woman living in the wealthiest country on earth. I drive an SUV. My life consistently takes from the earth, and from the people who are disadvantaged because of it. That’s just the truth.

I read a fascinating book last year about a man, an emergency room doctor who left his career and corresponding salary behind after becoming convinced that the typical American lifestyle was life-threatening both for the people living it and for the environment. He and his family (wife and two kids) sold or gave away the vast majority of their possessions and now live in a house that would have fit into his old two-car garage. They are committed to using as little energy as possible, even to the point of not owning a clothes dryer (one of the biggest energy users in your home). They grow much of their own food. They say they are happier than when they had the big house and the cars and all the stuff. I am both slightly horrified and strangely jealous of this family. I think I wish I was brave enough to make those kinds of changes.

But, since I haven’t yet moved the family Jones into smaller square footage or thrown away my dryer, much of this still just runs around in my head. I try, for me and mine, to not buy things we don’t really need. To avoid plastic and chemicals and excess packaging. To try to do with less. Just…less. And in case I’m sounding too saintly here, what I also do is roll my eyes alot at what junk other people buy, or sigh in exasperation about what all my kids think they need, or pass judgment in general about Americans and their incessant need to buy more and more and more.

Dang Americans. I sure feel sorry for YOU. Oh yeah, wait, that’s me.

Soooo me. Because when I stumbled upon one of those Old Navy crazy half-off everything on clearance sales this weekend? I was like a junkie getting a badly needed, rayon-scented fix. All those well meaning thoughts in my head went right out the window. What do you mean, I don’t need that shirt. It’s THREE DOLLARS. I have to have it!

There’s really nothing left to say in the face of such hypocrisy. Except that if you really NEED a new shirt, they might have a few left at Old Navy. Just promise me that you’ll hang it to dry, ok?