Stuffed with stuff.
My post-holiday hangover, having consumed too much. After weeks of boxes, surprise visits from UPS trucks, wrapping, unwrapping, puzzling where to put things, weighing whether recipients will receive “enough” or (almost worse) “too much,” upsetting an equitable balance. Who of us hasn’t suffered when our Santa pile was “too small” or secretly gloated at the opposite? Stuff is the currency of materialism, when we’re young especially. Abstract dollars may seem valueless, but a gleaming X-box? (X-box included here for X-ample and euphony only, none evident beneath our (overstuffed) tree – this year.)
Jane asked what I want for Christmas. I drew a blank. (Know the origin of that phrase? I didn’t either. Check it out.) “Nothing,” I moaned, but that seems incredible. How could a human want for nothing! I want more years, health for loved ones, peace on earth, and climate sanity, but these cannot be bought. Truly, I want less – we’re running out of space – and time – and any acquisition costs both – but discarding is almost as perplexing as acquiring. Several Christmases ago I was tempted by an easy-peasy foolproof instant deep-frier at a surprisingly reasonable cost. I love well-fried foods but haven’t the patience or know-how to prepare them. So many pans – and that spattering grease! Santa, pleased with this clue, brought – voila! – my deep-frier, which turns out neither easy-peasy, foolproof, nor instant, and whose output lacks the deliciousness I crave. Do I discard said frier? Nonsense – it’s “perfectly good.” Give it away? (I’ve tried; no one wants it.) Set up a tag sale for that exclusive purpose? Donate it (but to whom? – Does an indigent need a deep frier?) Stumped, I ended up stuffing it beneath our kitchen sink, where it complicates, instead of simplifying my life. I curse it periodically. Who’s the victim here and who the culprit? (Wanna a deep-frier? I’ll even pay postage. It’s easy-peasy – foolproof – instant…)
I’m no ascetic. I’d not have lasted a night in Thoreau’s pond-side hut. (He too, it turns out, took breaks from his Spartan lodgings, to catch a sound night’s sleep in his customary bed.) I crave quarters comfortable, convenient, comely, and quiet, quiet especially being a luxury amidst today’s screeching clatter. I like clean sheets and a sleeping temperature in the upper sixties, thank you very much. I’m a consumer too, of books especially. I recently purchased about ten pounds worth, using holiday discounts as my excuse.
No ascetic I, but neither a glutton. Recently Jane and I watched the documentary American Factory, which tells the story of a Chinese company’s opening an automotive glass factory near Dayton, Ohio, in a shuttered GM plant. It’s hair-raising, worthwhile, true. The Chinese workers are lean, dedicated, indefatigable, and apparently content. The American workers are mostly obese, dyspeptic, laggardly by comparison, and enraged. The Chinese workers have scant lives or identities; they’ve deputized their dreams to their all-knowing, all-powerful employer. The American workers enjoy more freedom and stuff, only enjoy is the wrong verb. They feel screwed by capitalism and they resent it. The Chinese prevail in this culture clash, because their way is more efficient, and half a paycheck is better than none. Which way’s preferable – Chinese leanness or American stuffing, the way of selflessness or the way of self? Neither, the movie suggests, but an implausible blend of both.
A period of self-gratulatory abstinence will succeed my stuff hangover, after which I’ll resume acquiring. Not that I need anything precisely, but I could do with an improved griddle – and fuzzier slippers – a less threadbare work-bed pillow – noise-canceling Airpods (sweet!) – and books, of course.