It seems businesses have become smarter and we, the buying public, have become dumber. There was a time when businesses knocked themselves out doing what they could for us, but now they have us doing their work for them – and then we pay them. I live in the country where this practice seems to be most blatant.
I think it may have started with Cut Your Own Christmas Tree. We drive for miles from the suburbs into the country where we trudge through snow in hip boots, mufflers, mittens and hats, in search of that one perfect tree. Then we struggle to chop it down, drag it to our vehicle, hoist it onto our car, and spend frustrating, bumbling, moments securing it to our roofs so it won’t take flight during our drive home. Our toes and noses are frozen but we’re refreshed, invigorated and happy to pay for the pleasure of doing all the work ourselves.
How about Pick Your Own Flowers? Situated on a garden center table are lovely fresh floral bouquets ready for purchase. But noooo, we’d rather walk into fields, fight off bees and a myriad of other insects and sneeze from pollen, in search of our own posy selection. Doing this makes us feel like Laura Ingles, in Little House on the Prairie.
Pick Your Own Strawberries, Blueberries, and Raspberries are popular summer activities offered at roadside stands. In the sweltering July heat we see throngs of adults and children hunched over, like migrant workers, walking through fields of berries, examining and evaluating each one before gently dropping it into their pail. Meanwhile, on a counter top of that same roadside stand, are those same berries, already picked and packaged for lazy customers like me, who would do anything to avoid bending and sweating.
We know fall is in the air when we read signs pointing to places where we can pick our own pumpkins; heavy pumpkins, lying in fields, caked with messy mud. We enjoy assessing the huge selection, finding that perfect one, and lugging it to the cash register. We would rather do that than conveniently grab one from the large display lined up on pallets. I suspect this is prompted by that same Laura Ingles syndrome.
I saw a sign at a roadside stand recently that read Dig Your Own Mums and, sure enough, people were lined up anxious to do just that. I don’t know why they do it. I wouldn’t. But apparently most people believe that muddy shoes and dirty hands are an integral part of communing with nature and they’re happy to pay for the privilege of communing with nature.
The one that makes me laugh out loud is, Cook Your Own Food. It seems that some high-end restaurants are now inviting customers to cook on their premises. They supply the food for the meal you choose to make. I overheard several women discussing this phenomenon the other day, each expressing how wonderfully innovative the concept is. As far as I’m concerned if I wanted to cook I’d stay home. Why would anyone in their right mind, dress up, drive to a restaurant, and pay to cook their own dinner?
Perhaps this is the start of a whole new American trend. I can see it now; the possibilities are endless: Cut Your Own Hair, Perform Your Own Colonoscopy, Dig Your Own Grave, and pay us for the privilege of letting you do it.
I received a bizarre e-mail recently. I don’t usually open unsolicited mail but this one captured my interest, so I chanced it. I learned that you can now send away for a diploma from most any college. You needn’t attend classes or do anything even remotely cerebral to earn your degree. You need only to select the college of your choice, send in money, and some faceless felon will mail you an “official” diploma. You can be the world’s most pathetic, non-motivated, fifth grade drop-out, and still get a college degree to hang on the wall in your recently acquired suite of legal offices.
Ain’t America great?
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