The Church of the Checkout
It starts innocently enough: a quick scroll through a sale, a harmless peek at “what’s new.” But before you know it, you’re kneeling at the altar of the “Add to Cart” button, whispering prayers to the gods of free shipping. I am there too, pretending to compare prices while actually justifying why I need another gadget to organize the gadgets I already own. We call it retail therapy, but it’s the most expensive confession booth in history.
We’ve replaced self-reflection with self-indulgence, and the only thing we’re reflecting on is the glow of our screens as we track our packages. The rules are simple: every purchase is a promise, every unboxing a baptism, and every return a tiny death. We behave as if the world is our personal catalog, even though the catalog is infinite and our closets are full.
The Performance of Possession
Consumerism isn’t about owning things; it’s about being seen owning things. The fitness guy doesn’t just buy a water bottle; he buys the water bottle that says, “I hydrate better than you.” The minimalist influencer spends $300 on a lamp that looks like it came from a dumpster, but it’s a designer dumpster. The “authentic” mom posts a haul video of ethically sourced toys while her kid plays with the box. The problem isn’t the stuff; it’s the story we tell about the stuff. We’re all narrating our lives like we’re auditioning for a reality show no one asked to watch.
My favorite genre is performative frugality. Today’s episode: someone brags about saving 200 purchase, as if the math checks out. They’ll post a thread about how they “hacked” the system, conveniently leaving out the part where they spent three hours researching coupon codes. The hustle is real, but the savings are imaginary. It’s the human equivalent of clipping coupons for a yacht.
The Narcissism of Need
Every ad is a mirror, and we’re all staring at our reflections, wondering if we’re good enough. Spoiler: we’re not, but this $49.99 skincare routine might help. The algorithm knows your insecurities better than your therapist. It whispers, “You deserve this,” and we believe it because the alternative is admitting we don’t. We buy things to feel complete, but the feeling expires faster than the warranty.
The joke is that we’re not buying products; we’re buying permission to like ourselves for five minutes. The bio changes from “person” to “collector” overnight, and with it comes the solemn duty to curate a shelf that says, “I have taste.” We think this is individuality, but it’s just branding with extra steps.
The exchange rate
Happiness converts to regret at a rate of roughly one impulse buy per existential crisis. Side effects include clutter, debt, and the sinking realization that you’re just a walking wishlist.
The Panic of the Empty Cart
We laugh at toddlers throwing tantrums in toy aisles, yet we panic harder when the “Out of Stock” banner appears. The sale ends in 3 minutes? Suddenly we’re Olympic sprinters, racing to checkout before the clock runs out. The item arrives, and for a moment, we’re gods. Then the high fades, and we’re just mortals with another thing to dust.
Shopping is anesthesia. It numbs the day’s bruises with shiny new distractions. Each purchase is a bandage over a larger wound, and we keep layering them until the credit card bill arrives. We call it self-care, but it feels like speed dating with our bank accounts, and everyone is lying about their balance.
Hypocrisy Is the House Style
The platform rewards extremes, so we oblige. We drag influencers for their hauls, then post our own. We condemn fast fashion while wearing it. We mock Black Friday mobs while refreshing Cyber Monday deals. The hypocrisy isn’t a bug; it’s the business model. We’re needy, narcissistic, spineless clowns taking turns at the register and acting offended when someone points it out.
I am not above any of this. I have bought a gadget I didn’t need because it had “4.8 stars.” I have pretended to care about sustainability while ordering next-day delivery. I have mistaken a purchase for a personality. The critique is a mirror, and the mirror is smudged with my fingerprints.
The House Always Wins
The platforms know the math. Keep the deals slightly worse than satisfying, and people will chase the next one. Serve guilt next to temptation so users oscillate between shame and indulgence, two emotions that never log off. Hide the checkout behind endless upsells; the slot machine handle is your thumb. Show you ads that suggest you could be better if only you bought the thing, joined the trend, or downloaded the app promising to “simplify your life” by complicating it.
We supply the content for free. We even defend the brands when critics ask questions. We call it “retail therapy” while the house counts our dollars like chips. The most disturbing part is how reasonable it feels. Of course I should buy this gadget instead of fixing the one I have. Of course I should ask strangers if my outfit is valid. Of course the best place to process grief is a shopping spree. It’s absurd, and somehow it’s Tuesday.
The Quiet Sting
The punchline is simple: the audience we pretend isn’t watching is very much watching, and we’re performing anyway. The neighbor you despise noticed your new car. The coworker you admire saw your unboxing video and said nothing. The ex you blocked has a new account and knows exactly how often you shop. There’s no such thing as a private purchase, only dimmer lights.
Maybe the only honest move is to admit we’re addicted to the chase. We want someone, anyone, to confirm we’re not alone in this crowded mall. We could stop buying, but then who would notice? We could keep buying, but then who are we doing it for? The curtain never falls. The show goes on because we keep clapping for ourselves.
So here’s the mirror, held low and steady: we are the shoppers, the sellers, the critics, and the janitors mopping up spilled dopamine. The circus is us. If that stings, good. Maybe that itch is the first real feeling we’ve had all day.