*I don't own this image. I tried to find out who did and I cannot. If you do, please don't sue me. If you'll keep reading, you'll understand that this would be futile anyway. I have come to two somewhat painful conclusions in the past few years: 1) The competitive and clique-prone nature of high school never ends. In fact, it gets worse. 2) I am so lame. Definitely not sitting at the popular table of life right at the moment. Now, I had a fairly pleasant high school experience. For that, I am grateful. But my post-high school life hasn’t been so easy.
One of the ways this dynamic comes into play is in the accumulation of stuff. Lately, I’m noticing this in terms of electronics, cars, and car accessories. I am sensitive to it right now because all of my e-necessities have suddenly become borderline mutinous. My laptop shuts off the minute it is unplugged. And it heats up to a threatening level. Not so long ago, I had an ear infection and I would just lay my head down on the computer because I didn’t have a heating pad, and this baby was cookin'. I’ve got a seminar paper to finish and a thesis to write. This laptop MUST hold out. (In case anyone is curious, the seminar paper is on Electric Transmission Cost Allocation and its importance in connecting renewable generated power, and the thesis is on offshore hydrokinetic energy. Party.) Further, my daughter has decorated the cover with stickers – a butterfly and Dora the Explorer – and I cannot fully remove them. Then there’s my phone. Oh, my phone. Sometimes it just shuts off. For no reason. But, it comes right back on! It just . . . shuts off. At random. So, there’s that. And it’s old. When I got it back in the Pleistocene Era, I was completely stoked because it had – (wait for it) a FULL Qwerty keypad. I could flip it open and text with great speed and accurate punctuation. Now, I have to contend with you people and your smart phones. NO, you smug yuppie. I DO NOT play Angry Birds or Words with Friends. I don’t even know what that is.
Then, there’s my sweet ride. I can’t complain, and I won’t complain about her because I have this paranoid fear that if I do, she will quit on me. Sometimes I pat her once regal dashboard and tell her she’s doing a great job. Ok, old girl – I’m not particularly happy about you heating up to just below the red portion on my temperature gauge when we’re in stop-and-go traffic, but you’re running! And for me, that has always been enough. Sometimes I expect to receive a letter from the University of Virginia, politely requesting that I remove my rear window sticker because I am bad PR. Besides the anxious growl she produces at red lights, there are the windshield wipers. Throughout our automotive relationship, those wipers have had periods during which they will spontaneously turn on. This is particularly embarrassing on sunny days, when I’m stopped. I feel like the occupants of the car next to me will look over and wonder if I’ve taken total leave of my senses. So, if I feel someone’s aware – I just push the wiper fluid button as if I am simply overzealous about a clean windshield.
I try to continually express gratitude that I have these things, although they are about as cool as wearing dental headgear in 9th grade. Truth is, for the moment, I have what I need in order to fulfill my current responsibilities. It’s not comfortable, or glamorous, but for now it will suffice. Besides, e-consumerism is completely out of hand. Admittedly, to a degree this provides some comfort in coping with my material inadequacy. But let’s be real people – these electronics – well, they own your ass.
Ever wanted to throw a brick through a Verizon store like a maniac because your expensive phone has malfunctioned yet again? Well, that’s because electronic companies have implemented policies of planned obsolescence. Your stuff, by and large, is made to wuss out by the time the company has augmented the technology enough to produce an I-(whatever) 4, et seq. Then, there’s the problem of e-waste. (I swear I'm not making this stuff up.) Electronics have some nasty metals inside. Sure, you can recycle them. But many of the companies that say they’re recycling them are often shipping them to this tiny Chinese town where they are picked apart by hand for spare change. This town has probably the highest percentage of cancer in the world. Guiyu, China. (Seriously, look it up.)
So, just like some offbeat but cool kid in high school that inspires the popular crowd to start sporting retrowear, knock-off Ray-bans, and Chuck Taylors, I’m bringing (un) sexy back, when it comes to my toys. Broke is the new black. You heard it here first, y'all.
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