As the lurid post-Thanksgiving celebration, Black Friday, encourages bargain seekers to track the latest gadgetry with alacrity, I find myself at odds. Not at odds with the principles of capitalism, but rather the emotional fanaticism. I don’t understand the greed that compels the java-enslaved, sleep-deprived shopaholic. Whether it is out of reasonable contentment or sheer candor, I have no desire to wade a superficial sea of consumers to be lulled by the sycophant or trampled by the eager, even if I do acquire the coveted holiday treasure at a third of the cost.
Label me a man of an aberration embodiment if you will, but I prefer the comfort of lounging on my leather sofa in my skinny jeans over the war scars I would receive trampled to the floor of the shopping mall battlefield. I do not mean to debase those who eagerly anticipate this unofficial official tradition following Thanksgiving. For to some, this day is like Hannah Murray’s accent. Simply beautiful.
But for me, I fancy a modicum of interaction this day, as the nonconformist within seeks a quiet solitude amidst today’s frenzy. I am called to the quaint. Between superfluous napping, I shall indulge the companionship of a novel and the tone of white noise concluding my Night Beds record.