My Shirt With Thumb Holes Started It

The hole on my sleeve is the gnawingest thing on my brain right now. I bought this shirt when I was old enough to know better than to buy this shirt. It’s juvenile . But now I have it. Now I need to save money. Now I must continue to wear it. I suppose I could get out of it by making yet another shirt purchase, but I fear I would hate myself far more if I was to continue to wallow in my consumerist ways.

There is a funny thought. Wallowing in consumerism. That is a word I would never have thought (I guess I did accidentally think of it, though) to use with consumerist, yet it is rather fitting.

I don’t really want to be a consumer, do I? I want to be a producer. Or whatever the opposite of consumer is.

Yet, I wallow in consumerism, as if I am its unwilling victim. As if my hands are tied. As if I was born into the world a beast of consumerist burden.

It’s foolish to think this way. Hence, I will not replace the shirt on my back simply because it has juvenile thumb holes.

I am no victim. If you choose to act as if you are one, I should know better than to let your foolishness cause me to also remain foolish. I cannot blame your decision to wallow for my decision to wallow. You may be “off the hook” until God or life opens your eyes, but if my eyes are already open, I am free of excuses.

It’s nice to  be free of excuses.

Oh, and yes, I realize there is no point in producing if no one is consuming what you produce. It’s not all bad. I just meant the wallowing. The race. The never-have-enough, keeping-up-with-the-joneses lie. That’s a disgusting way to live. That type of consumer needs to watch American Beauty and listen intently to Kevin Spacey confront them with,

“This isn’t life, it’s just stuff. And it’s become more important to you than living. Well, honey, that’s just nuts.”

…My shirt with thumb holes started it, but I finished it.