“Shop ‘Til You Drop!” Such was the mantra of zealous shoppers only a few years ago. For many, shopping remains a favorite sport. But, if you live in Ithaca, New York — and I do — it is impossible to live up to this directive. Well, almost impossible. You could drop after a day of trying to shop.
Our toaster died last week. It was a considerate death, occurring after breakfast and before anyone wanted to toast an English muffin to go with afternoon coffee. A replacement was imperative. So I said, brightly and with great hope, “I’ll pick one up when I am out this afternoon.” However, this is Ithaca. I know of no place on the centrally located Commons to buy small appliances. K-Mart is gone. I decided on Target, but they were rearranging. There were eleven — count ‘em — toasters on display, but only three styles for sale.
Wegmans was a possibility. I think of Wegmans as our own general store although there are items you can no longer purchase there such as pantyhose which no one misses anyway. I used to stand at the top of the aisle with the sign that read “SALAD DRESSING —PICKLES — PANTYHOSE.” Yes, I thought. There must be some hidden truth in that, but they took the sign down before I could figure it out.
But, back to the toaster. I did buy one at the Bon-Ton. It cost more than I hoped to spend, although I was given a coupon for five dollars off any other item I might want to overspend for. The bread slot is stingy on space if you are trying to toast a sesame bagel from the Ithaca Bakery. Still, it will do and it only took an hour and 35 minutes to find it. For Ithaca, that is a superior shopping experience. Try buying a bathing suit!
So, I am complaining, but I am wary of my whining. In truth, I am happy enough to miss out on the shopping whirlpool that sucks otherwise reasonable people into its vortex. It is treacherous in there, spinning through endless shopping malls and outlet stores, lured by the thrill of the markdown, closing in for the kill. Here in Ithaca, there is built-in protection.
My nephew, visiting us at age seventeen, said to me, “Sometimes I feel kind of lousy and I go and buy myself a new video game so I’ll feel better, but, you know what? I don’t feel any better.”
“What does that tell you?” I asked, thinking this might be that quintessential teachable moment we all hear about.
“Nothing,” he said and took a swig of the Coke he was drinking for breakfast.
I know RVers who head south every winter with little more than toothbrushes and a change of underwear stored in their rolling accommodations and who return in four months unable to wedge another tea towel from the Grand Ole Opry into the vehicle, who had to sleep in motels on the way back because the bed was stacked high with bargains. I expect it will all end up in our landfill one day.
On Sunday, we planted peas and lettuce in the welcoming, warming earth. It was the earliest planting ever. Our cats lay belly-up in the sun-dappled back yard while we drank mugs of coffee and listened to the birds getting themselves organized. The siren song of the shopping mall is out of earshot.
