A few months into the covid-19 pandemic, when social distancing ordinances and lockdowns became commonplace, I noticed that a lot of people were online shopping. OK, fine, no shit Sherlock, what an observation, but it really did feel like those of us who managed to maintain gainful employment during the disaster that was 2020 were buying a lot of unnecessary product, well beyond Clorox wipes and toilet paper, for some inconceivable reason—we were purchasing fire fits only the cashier at the grocery store would ever get to see, clothing we refused to remove our sweat pants to try on; we thrifted nonessential items online knowing full well that an essential worker had to deliver to it, potentially endangering himself like he does all day for, ideally, more responsible shoppers. (That last one is all me.) And then, after a while, the desire to buy a bunch of worthless junk subsided—quarantined existence leveled out, for better or worse, and time was filled with baking bread or binge-watching TV. And yet, my dear friends, 10 months after retreating into my apartment, I feel the capitalist pang of desire filling my soul once again. I scour the internet for things I don’t need until I want them, and then I fight the urge to buy them. This time, I’m concerned I’m no match for the consumerist culture I was born into. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I really want a luxury lunchbox.
