Consumer
If I responded to every email asking for my feedback on something, I’d start to think the universe revolved around me. My opinion would be highly sought after. Companies would be at the edge of their seats, waiting for me to rate their product or service so they could tweak that next online purchase experience, or next airport shuttle ride, in a way that would please me more. Then I would rate that next experience, and they would iterate until they got it good enough to squeeze money out of my wallet on whatever basis they require to be profitable. Maybe I would toy with them a little, reducing my next rating by a star or two and complaining about some trivial thing that inconvenienced me: The website didn’t load optimally on my seven-inch phone screen while I was shopping in my pajamas; the shuttle driver talked too much and hampered my enjoyment of my vacation. These companies would take my feedback very seriously, and offer me a coupon. They’d want to make it right. I am the consumer, after all.
If I considered every variant of a consumer product available to me, I would think the quality of my self-expression hinged on that decision. I could spend hours scrolling through 347 pages of search results for “tablecloth”, considering how each one might look next to the dining room curtains, whether it complemented or clashed with our existing dishware, and how it might fit with the vibe and vintage of our house. We’re supposed to cultivate a vibe, right? The way we present ourselves is through our stuff; the way we find joy is through our stuff. I should be able to look at my dining room every day, smile about my design choices, and feel good and right about my life. There’s no reason my home accessories—from the color of my stand mixer to the accent of the voice on my Google Home device—should not reflect exactly who I am. I’m a unique and precious individual, after all.
If I bought everything online, I’d believe I was entitled to have the fruits of the world delivered to my doorstep. I might even believe the fiction that shipping is free. I’d expect that any product I dreamt of would be available for instant purchase on a website with sliders and checkboxes that allow me to tweak it to my exacting preference, and pay for it on my own schedule in custom-sized installments. I’d still require delivery within a few days, of course. No matter where it’s manufactured and where I live, the items I want should be available within the lifespan of the impulse that caused me to buy it in the first place. After all, I’m a busy, modern woman who values convenience.
If I followed social media influencers who grew up on pop psychology, I would constantly be looking out for toxic behavior in my family and acquaintances. When they said anything to challenge my privileged position—my sure knowledge of the world and my place in it—I would put up a wall and call it a boundary that could only be crossed with consequences. Everybody would have to tiptoe around my personal likes and dislikes, and any topic of conversation that’s sensitive to me, even if they don’t realize it’s sensitive. They wouldn’t be allowed to ask about it, or get a second chance to approach it more delicately; they should have just known to do better. Any questions about my point of view would be treated as a dismissal of my lived experience. Repeated violations of my boundaries would be grounds for going low-contact or even no-contact. After all, I am enlightened.
If I busied myself on my phone whenever I watched TV, I would grow to like only shows with noisy moments specifically designed to jerk my attention away from Internet scrolling. If the show wasn’t flashy enough to make me watch continuously, or obvious enough to telegraph each plot development in the few seconds I deigned to look up, I would write it off and move on to the next tile in the endless Netflix scroll. I would keep looking for a story that invoked the right mix of brain chemicals to make me feel entertained but not fulfilled. I just need a light diversion from my constant diversion. After all, there is so much content to consume and I have but one pair of paying eyeballs.
I could spent great amounts of energy turning inward, tending my persona and thinking about how the world can better serve me, believing that it’s all part of self care. But I’d be spending an equal amount of energy focused outward in the form of yearning—for more control over my life, more health or happiness, snazzy wardrobe, trendy house, delivery of that anticipated next thing. Without realizing it, I’d be reaching for something to make me feel whole, to make me feel understood even as I would be pushing away those who try to connect on more than a transactional level. What if I were to stop reaching so desperately toward the promises of corporations and advertisements and faux experts? Maybe I would sit for a minute, with still hands, and look at the riches already surrounding me. People who are not perfect, but who extend me grace because I’m also not perfect. A home that’s not decorated according to a discernible aesthetic, but gives me warmth and security. A cute object or book bought at a physical store, reminding me of that one day I spent a sunny afternoon exploring the shopping district and having coffee. My phone: sitting away from me, face-down.
Quiet.