Bah to Boxing Day
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There's really only one thing to say about Boxing Day shopping: Don't.
I say this even though you know darn well I am a super-shopper. To quote Carrie Bradshaw, shopping is my cardio; it is my creative outlet; my soothing moment in a hectic day; my reward for work well done and my solace when things go awry. There is nothing about shopping I dislike.
Except Boxing Day.
When I was in journalism school I was always made uneasy by one of my classmates, though I couldn't put my finger on why. "Raw ambition is always unattractive," my then-amour said, and he was right. Her desperate grasping at not very much was anxiety-making.
That's the ilk of Boxing Day, the naked avarice over things that simply aren't worth it. Like shopping in a bazaar, shopping even on sale is best when you show a hunter's calculated indifference (don't let them think you want it too much) or, conversely, when you show the utter joy of stumbling over something you truly love, perhaps that precious something you've been looking for but never thought you'd find.
Boxing Day offers none of that.
Boxing Day instead uncovers the dark side of shopping, where you see the restless greed and raw ambition of the ugly shopper who thinks she really might be getting away with something, clawing over pawed-over merchandise she didn't think was worth it two days ago. Worse, it's a chance to pick up left-over Christmas baubles, gift wrap, cards — there's something ineffably sad about seeing those left-overs, something so morning-after-the-night-before.
Edna Ferber, an author of dubious American Gothics, was always good at describing the awful "after," articulating the way something looked in innocence (lovely) and then in experience (as it really is). She once re-described a glistening ham as hacked, pink and oozing grease. That image stuck with me, perfectly illustrating the sense of the moment too late, and that's how yesterday's Christmas ornaments look to me — instead of imagining them lovely on the tree, they simply look garish and artificial in the cool light of the next season.
The moment too late is when all romance falls off and we're lying there exposed, naked; pale imitations of our loveliness before. And let's face it, if you are as organized as I am, no matter how practical it is to buy discounted Christmas stuff, you will no doubt forget you bought it, or won't remember where you put it, and you will end up buying the same stuff all over again next year.
There is something terribly unseemly about the rush to retail that follows one of the very few imposed days of abstinence in the calendar. Especially when the day is this day — the day when ideally you have given and received tokens of love and appreciation, carefully chosen objects meant to make you and your loved ones happy. The very next day you are heading out for more? It puts the lie to the things you said, the "it's perfect, I love it, it's just what I wanted" mythology. Doesn't it also devalue all those treasures? Yesterday it was worth $100, today not so much?
Practised by the worst offenders, Boxing Day shopping allows for a quality that eats at the soul of living a good life. Those practical souls who wait until after Christmas to actually make their gift purchases because it's cheaper may never understand this, but there is something soulless about the desire to forgo the moment, any moment, for practical reasons. That's why it's important to have a glass of wine with a good friend on a wintry Saturday afternoon even though you probably should clean the bathroom; that is why it's important to have flowers on your bedside table even when you're feeling penniless and the phone bill needs paying; that is why it is essential to greet the day with a decent cup of coffee and a wonderful-smelling soap in the shower even though Zest works just as well. To not offer the perfect gift at the perfect moment is simply wrong.
Though the origins of Boxing Day are murky, it seems it was as laudable in intent as Christmas. It was, or so some say, the day when the merchant class would raise their gaze from one another and their own needs in order to acknowledge those servants who help them, and so would give those servants boxes of food, fruit or clothing. Or, it was the day the alms boxes were opened and the bounty distributed to the poorest of the poor. Such a lovely idea, so sullied by the scramble for 20 to 70 per cent off.
There's really only one thing to say about Boxing Day shopping: Don't.
I say this even though you know darn well I am a super-shopper. To quote Carrie Bradshaw, shopping is my cardio; it is my creative outlet; my soothing moment in a hectic day; my reward for work well done and my solace when things go awry. There is nothing about shopping I dislike.
Except Boxing Day.
When I was in journalism school I was always made uneasy by one of my classmates, though I couldn't put my finger on why. "Raw ambition is always unattractive," my then-amour said, and he was right. Her desperate grasping at not very much was anxiety-making.
That's the ilk of Boxing Day, the naked avarice over things that simply aren't worth it. Like shopping in a bazaar, shopping even on sale is best when you show a hunter's calculated indifference (don't let them think you want it too much) or, conversely, when you show the utter joy of stumbling over something you truly love, perhaps that precious something you've been looking for but never thought you'd find.
Boxing Day offers none of that.
Boxing Day instead uncovers the dark side of shopping, where you see the restless greed and raw ambition of the ugly shopper who thinks she really might be getting away with something, clawing over pawed-over merchandise she didn't think was worth it two days ago. Worse, it's a chance to pick up left-over Christmas baubles, gift wrap, cards — there's something ineffably sad about seeing those left-overs, something so morning-after-the-night-before.
Edna Ferber, an author of dubious American Gothics, was always good at describing the awful "after," articulating the way something looked in innocence (lovely) and then in experience (as it really is). She once re-described a glistening ham as hacked, pink and oozing grease. That image stuck with me, perfectly illustrating the sense of the moment too late, and that's how yesterday's Christmas ornaments look to me — instead of imagining them lovely on the tree, they simply look garish and artificial in the cool light of the next season.
The moment too late is when all romance falls off and we're lying there exposed, naked; pale imitations of our loveliness before. And let's face it, if you are as organized as I am, no matter how practical it is to buy discounted Christmas stuff, you will no doubt forget you bought it, or won't remember where you put it, and you will end up buying the same stuff all over again next year.
There is something terribly unseemly about the rush to retail that follows one of the very few imposed days of abstinence in the calendar. Especially when the day is this day — the day when ideally you have given and received tokens of love and appreciation, carefully chosen objects meant to make you and your loved ones happy. The very next day you are heading out for more? It puts the lie to the things you said, the "it's perfect, I love it, it's just what I wanted" mythology. Doesn't it also devalue all those treasures? Yesterday it was worth $100, today not so much?
Practised by the worst offenders, Boxing Day shopping allows for a quality that eats at the soul of living a good life. Those practical souls who wait until after Christmas to actually make their gift purchases because it's cheaper may never understand this, but there is something soulless about the desire to forgo the moment, any moment, for practical reasons. That's why it's important to have a glass of wine with a good friend on a wintry Saturday afternoon even though you probably should clean the bathroom; that is why it's important to have flowers on your bedside table even when you're feeling penniless and the phone bill needs paying; that is why it is essential to greet the day with a decent cup of coffee and a wonderful-smelling soap in the shower even though Zest works just as well. To not offer the perfect gift at the perfect moment is simply wrong.
Though the origins of Boxing Day are murky, it seems it was as laudable in intent as Christmas. It was, or so some say, the day when the merchant class would raise their gaze from one another and their own needs in order to acknowledge those servants who help them, and so would give those servants boxes of food, fruit or clothing. Or, it was the day the alms boxes were opened and the bounty distributed to the poorest of the poor. Such a lovely idea, so sullied by the scramble for 20 to 70 per cent off.
I think I've made my views known. In fact, I don't think I could be more clear. So please, people, you don't have to take my advice but I beseech you to consider it. There was a lot of merchandise on sale before Christmas; you could have bought it then. You just received a whole lot of stuff you didn't pay for, which was chosen just for you. It's only shopping.
Please, please, for the love of your god, take a day off. Remove yourself from the madding crowd. Choose serenity over the churn of greed. Pour another eggnog, open the book you received but didn't think you'd like, light a fire in the fireplace, put on those fluffy slippers you hate but receive every year and enjoy a moment of peace on earth.
And remember, brand-new untouched spring merchandise starts arriving in just a few weeks.
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Tracy Nesdoly's column appears every two weeks. Write to her at tn@tracynesdoly.com
posted by þΛųL jØŋαŦhΛŋ @ 10:30
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