The Tyranny of Choice

Cool Water Lily! Now I remember!

One day, Steve was going over to CVS to pick up a prescription. I asked him to buy deodorant for me. “Sure,” he replied. “What kind?” I had stupidly thrown the old one away, and didn’t remember exactly what I had last used. “It’s Secret. I think. And I want the antiperspirant/deodorant.You’ll see it!” And off he went. In a few minutes, I got a text: Did you want solid or gel? Unscented or aloe or floral? What strength? As I responded, it struck me: there are waaaay too many choices in underarm protection products these days.

And don’t get me started on hair care. I remember the few brands on the market in the 1960’s, Breck and Prell and maybe one dandruff shampoo. Now there is a dizzying array of possibilities. I have been getting keratin treatments for my hair for a few years now, which have worked wonders taming my humidity-challenged mane. However, I MUST use a sulfate-free shampoo and conditioner, or apparently the magic disappears (I haven’t dared test this out, but I can imagine accidentally using a shampoo containing sulfates, watching my hair instantly frizz up. Can’t chance it!) So there’s another sub-genre to seek out, and believe me there are tons of choices there as well.

For my birthday last year, Rose gave me a gift subscription to Function of Beauty. This is a company that concocts a formula for shampoo and conditioner just for you, based on your answers on a questionnaire. Every six months, another set of bottles arrives, and I have to say the stuff is fantastic. Smells amazing, and, best of all, it’s all SULFATE FREE! I get a kick out of the label. It reads “Function of Mom.” Can’t get much more personalized than that!

What next? Will cereal and yogurt and laundry detergent makers start devising “just for you” items based on online surveys? And how about books and magazines? I prefer my “Poets and Writers” mag without ANY poetry, and please remove all the scary parts of Stephen King’s novels.

We raise our kids (or at least I tried to raise mine) with the idea that the world does not cater to their every whim, that they need to be resilient and agreeable, a lot of the time, lemonade from lemons, yadda yadda. But then society gives them the very opposite idea. Everything is exactly as they like it, from music (remember enduring the song on the radio that you hated? Nowadays, their playlists are all faves, all the time.) to TV shows (remember watching whatever was on at 8 PM on Wednesday on ABC? Now, with Hulu and Netflix and Google Play and HBO, there’s NO chance you’ll ever be stuck watching anything you don’t adore).

Is there a tyranny of choice these days? Maybe. We do spend an inordinate amount of time making selections, don’t we? Time perhaps better spent elsewhere. But there’s no turning back now. We have met the tyrant, and it is us.

Yes, precisely!

My Very Own Green-Eyed Monster

                                                                            

Green with Jealousy--literally

“How all the other passions fleet to air,

As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy!”

--Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice

Of all the seven deadly sins I battle, I console myself about my relative lack of jealousy. At least there’s that! Mind you, this is not because I am above that sort of emotion. It is merely that I lack the interest level to covet most things. I am not remotely jealous of those who own the mega-mansions in our township, for example. Sure, it’d be great to have closets not built for Thumbelina, and a decent sized kitchen. But I know myself—I’d never be able to maintain that kind of space, even with household help. I have zero desire for a snazzy sports car, or a yacht; I wish the owners of those items well. When I was in middle school in New York, I was briefly jealous of classmate Leslie Marxmeyer, who had poker straight platinum blonde hair, gorgeous clothes, and was (it seemed) six feet tall, but I soon realized that I was happy enough being short and brunette and haphazardly garbed.

So it was with a shock that I realized how jealous I am of other writers. I dream of writing pieces with their top-level cleverness, or their heart-tugging poignancy (preferably both at once). Though I am too conservative to pen anything like the hilarious but very raw family essays of David Sedaris, I’d truly love to. He can write about his super-eccentric sibs and parents and make you roar with laughter, while at the same time you’re crying for them. THAT, my friends, is talent.

During the past few years, I have started seeing more plays, after a long absence from the audience. But now I’m catching up: Next to Normal, Fun Home, Ragtime, Book of Mormon, Hamilton, Come From Away, Waitress. And as I watch, enthralled, all I can think about is: darn it! Why can’t I write like that?

Last month, Julie invited me to join her for a preview performance of a new musical on Broadway, Freestyle Love Supreme. FLS can be described as Whose Line is it Anyway? taken up about a hundred notches. A hugely talented troupe comes up with original rap numbers completely inspired by random shouted audience suggestions, on the spot. In other words, it all has to rhyme, it all goes lickety-split, it all flows perfectly—and it’s spontaneous. The night we were there, they invented a long and hysterical song about a doctor traveling in India who eats bad fruit while riding on an elephant, and attempts to self-medicate. I could never have created anything that funny, especially instantly. But I am so so jealous of the people who can.

As we are in the season of Thanksgiving, I am trying to conquer my green-eyed monster, and trade gnawing envy for simple appreciation. I am really no better than the people whose jealousy revolves around money and possessions, and that’s not OK. I need to be grateful for the writing ability I do have, and not always focus on being bested.

But it ain’t easy.

So perfectly funny/sad. Ugh.

Postcards Never Sent

A small sampling 

I have always loved postcards, mostly receiving them, because, for most of my life, I never traveled anywhere that would have anything souvenir-ish attached to it. Therefore it was rare that I mailed a postcard to anyone. It seemed silly to send postcards from Rehoboth Beach, where we’ve spent every summer for the past 38 years (“Surprise! It’s Elise! Greetings from the same boardwalk I’ve sent you photos of for decades!”)

When at last we began to explore a bit of the world, I’d buy postcards, actually write messages, and either mail them once I got home, or never send them at all. Finally, I realized that deep down I wanted to keep the cards myself, to remind me of my various journeys. And here’s the thing: postcards are cheap, compared to most other stuff I could buy to commemorate a trip. If you have seen our home, you can vouch for the fact that we are not interiorly decorated, not by a long shot. Not for us the displays of little Limoges figurines from France, nor the Peruvian woven throw pillows. It’s all we can do to keep our 100% American stuff in halfway decent shape, believe me.

So now I buy a few postcards wherever we roam, and tuck them away in my travel journals. They are lovely (cover shots I could never capture with my camera or phone), and just looking at them immediately evokes the countries we’ve seen. I look at one of the Arc de Triomphe, and right away my legs start to hurt with the memory of climbing up to the very top. I have another of the medieval tower in Lucca, Italy, and recall my sore legs after that ascent. Cliffs of Moher in Ireland? Nothing but climbing, for HOURS. Ouch! I refuse to see a pattern here, by the way. I am not out of shape!! Europeans just walk too darned much!!

I have postcards from our mission trips as well—South Dakota, Alaska, Costa Rica, Guatemala, West Virginia. These tell different stories, of the times when I am not a tourist, nor a local, but somewhere in between. I look at the natural beauty of these locations, and remember the stark contrast with the poverty and struggles of many who call these places home.

Steve and I are going on another adventure abroad in the spring, this time to Germany, Austria, Hungary and the Czech Republic. And I already anticipate another assortment of scenic postcards, undefiled by handwriting or postage, accompanying us home. Part of me thinks I should just mail these off to my family and friends instead, but I don’t really want to. After all, what would a card from Munich mean to someone who’s never been? Whereas, for me, these inexpensive mementos are a treasure trove, transporting me back to places that have so enriched my life.

Which is why you probably won’t get a postcard from me. But I’m happy to bore you with my slideshows instead! 

From last summer's mission trip to Puerto Rico