Epicurus once said that “one is rich not through one’s possessions, but through that which one can, with dignity, do without.” Honestly, I have no idea who Epicurus was, but it sounds to me like he was a pretty smart guy. So ever since I found this quote in my Christmas cracker, I've tried to live by his words.
An interesting experiment in a world driven by consumerism.
Let me be the first to point a finger at myself. I love getting pretty, shiny, new things as much as the next person. In case you haven’t heard the good news, retail therapy is a real thing. Nothing takes the sting out of a bad day like a massive shopping trip that leaves you with sore feet, enough plastic bags to line your bin with for a month, and the eventual buyer’s remorse.
On top of that, I work in advertising, which is basically consumerism spelled backwards (gnisitrevda is Satanic for consumerism). And after a few months of moral hoo-ha, I’ve come to the slightly disturbing conclusion that it is a world that I love being a part of. At least for now.
So you see, I’m not writing this post from a moral high horse, rather from the very heart of consumerist culture. It’s not that I’m living outside it; I've just become very aware of it. Not just because of the nature of my profession, but because I've recently fallen far behind in the race with the Joneses.
And the only way you can get a really good look at them, is from behind.
No-one has ever met the Joneses. You see, just as you think you’re catching up with them, they drive off in a car that’s just a little bit flashier than yours. They never invite you to their house, because when they’re not remodelling the kitchen or installing a bigger walk-in closet, they’re moving to an even more exclusive estate. And when you do happen to attend the same soiree as them, you never get to shake their hands. Unlike the rest of us, the Joneses don’t climb the social ladder. They just ride the elevator straight to the top, which makes moving in the same circles as them pretty hard.
Yet the greater part of the world’s population seem to spend most of their time chasing the elusive Joneses. They’re the ideal towards which we all strive. They’re what all of us want to be. It’s such a common, deep-seated need that the pursuit of wealth and status has become (if you ask me) the noblest of pursuits in modern society. If you don’t want to be like the Joneses, you've got your priorities all wrong, kid.
I guess it’s not a bad thing. Ambition is good, not just for the individual, but for society and the economy and all that stuff that rational people always bring up during this conversation.
But here’s my problem with the Joneses: I’m actually satisfied with my shabby, make-it-up-as-I-go-along, patched up life. Or at least, I would've been if the Joneses didn’t exist. I seriously don’t have a problem with most of my clothes coming from Mr Price and sale racks, until I see Mrs Jones in the window of some or other boutique, winking at me with a sly smile. I’m happy to bide my time in the slow lane with a job I enjoy, making do with what I earn and waiting for my ship to come in, until the young Joneses - the sons and daughters of fortune - start buying houses and upgrading their iPads.
Every time I have a moment of clarity, when I realise that I’m doing okay and I can honestly say that I am happy, I see them in the distance, smirking over their shoulders.
“No you’re not.”
“Is that it, then?” I always shout back defiantly, “Is a perpetual state of dissatisfaction the only way to be successful in life, to be respected, to be looked up to, to pay your mortgage, to put your kids through university?”
This is currently the most open-ended question in my life. Or no, I know the answer. I think we all know what the truth is about consumerist culture. But let’s face it, living outside it is a scary, scary prospect. Maybe that’s not even what we’re meant to do. Maybe we’re just meant to pause once in a while, and realise that what we have is
Enough.
And while we’re catching our breath and taking a moment to be grateful, it might just dawn on us that the Joneses are all in our heads. Finally, we might smell what you’d expect to smell in the middle of a rat race:
A rat.
And that’s a smell no amount of designer perfume can cover up.
