Sunday Suburbanite Soldiers run not-so gallantly across the cracked and well-travelled grey plain. Avoiding the pot holes as best they can, while plunging head first into battle, waging war upon the storefronts and upon each other. Knocking down one enemy, both real or perceived, at a time. Due to a bout of weekend work, I sit on the same unbloodied field, watching them. Amazed.
First off, not only I’m working on a Sunday, but I’m doing so at the request of my Roman Catholic clients. I know they’re Catholic because it says so right in their organization’s name. Jaded, I think to myself that the “sabbath” rule must have went away the very second they realized that they could make cash even on the day of rest. Oh, if they would only hurry up and figure out that they could do very much the same by simply allowing gay marriage.
But that, is most definitely a topic for another day.
No, today we’re focusing on the shoppers. The mad, crazy, self-serving, gotta-have-it shoppers. SUV’s a blaze, burning trails down ancient, yet mighty highways. Highways that can still remember how they used to get at least one day of the week off. One day of the week pretty much to themselves, free from people and their SUV’s. SUV’s, wishing that they could at least once, see this “off-road” that they had heard so much about. Wishing they could actually be either put to the use that they were intended for, or simply put out of their misery altogether. They were designed for adventure. They know that. Just as they know that they are instead loaded everyday simply with the stuff of the mundane. The stuff that any average sized car could actually handle quite well.
But again, this too is a topic best left for another day.
For today is Sunday. And while, to a dwindling few that means giving thanks, to many others that means taking product. Taking product at discounted prices. Taking product at “BoGo.” Taking product unneeded, but priced right. So the sun, and the warmth, and the freedom of the day need to wait in line. Waiting behind the conditioned air of the mall, the false light of the fluorescent. Waiting behind the schedule of the trip, as the family “crams” itself into a vehicle that weeps over its own blatant misuse. Burning fumes that darken the otherwise bright day, all in an effort to get there “before all the good stuff is gone.” But invariably, the “good stuff” always is. And what is the “good stuff” anyway?
At last, the topic for today.
The good stuff, oddly, isn’t the stuff you find yourself pining for after an artificially inflated woman comes on the television and tells you to. The “good stuff” is usually, in fact, the stuff that is only considered a “necessity” by the average household. The kind of stuff that no artificially inflated women ever feels the need to sell you on. I know, I know, it does seem blasphemous – but trust me – the average household does not need Guitar Hero. Sorry, but it’s true. The average family also doesn’t need a television in each and every room. But you just try and tell the average family that. In fact, the average family doesn’t even need in excess of 200 sqft per each and every room. But again, the reaction you’ll likely receive upon informing the “average” family of this, may very well leave you with a headache and black ring about your eye. This is America after all. Every man for himself is what they say, and I’ll be godammend if I don’t get mine!
I am amazed that we live in a country where enough just never seems to be enough. Where comfort has been replaced by gain. Replaced? Hell, “decimated” is a better word. I’m not saying you shouldn’t provide and be provided for, I’m just saying that moderation goes a long way. I have a dear friend who’s house I’ve never seen in person, but one that I am jealous of, based upon pictures I’ve been able to view. They have a very nice house. One that is comfortable. One that is whole. The hard wood floors are aged to highlight the fact that they are NOT Pergo. The walls proudly hold up a sampling of rockabilly paraphernalia and a child’s art. The furniture is far more welcoming than standoffish, and the dog – who is constantly in trouble for some such thing – still seems very much at home in her surroundings. In all, it appears a very comfy place. One that is filled much more with love and personality than it is “stuff” and – well – even “more stuff”. In short, she’s figured out that enough is exactly that.
Now I can’t speak of my house, as I fear it’s just an unholy wreck (at least that’s what C calls it most often), but I would like to think that it too has more love within it than overpriced crap. And sans the boy’s ever-growing Lego collection, I think we might actually have a pretty good shot at just that. But I digress again.
So, where were we?
Citizens, please! Take back your Sunday. Take back your peace. Take back your comfort. Stop running about, grabbing every last thing. It’s just all landfill in the final analysis any way. Stop missing out on the Sun for the Sale. On the clean, fresh air for the conditioned. Please. Relax. At least one day out of the week. After thirty thousand such days or so, you’ll be breathing your last. And your “stuff” will not leave with you. Your stuff won’t even care that you’ve gone. Only your memories will carry on, good and bad. Wouldn’t you rather leave more good ones, than ones of simply running across battlefields, cracked and grey?