Confusion. Indecision. Frustration. Irritation. I’m definitely seeing signs of my emergence as a curmudgeon. (Yes, women can be curmudgeons.) The series of reactions just noted often occurs when I go into a store to buy something simple. Coffee—by the pound or by the cup. Cough medicine. Toothpaste. Frozen broccoli. Or, in the most recent event, ballpoint pens. In each case, I have no fixed expectation or preference of what I want. I would be happy with a serviceable generic, store brand, or bargain selection. I just want to grab and go. But no. Modern marketing turns it into perplexity. Like this…

In the office supply store, I find the section dedicated to writing instruments. Hundreds of styles of ballpoint pens are on display. There are pens for every persuasion: retractable pens with pocket clips; rollerball pens with a special kind of ink; pens in all colors; pens with cushioned grips; pens packaged by the ones and twos and sixes; pens with points fine and medium; pens for every purpose. Who knew a person needed to be so fussy about a ballpoint pen?

But what kind of ballpoint pen is difficult to find? A plain old throw-away ballpoint pen. The kind you rummage for in your kitchen drawer. The kind that disappears into thin air, even though you were absolutely sure you bought a hundred of them last week. The regular old ballpoint pen with the missing cap that gets lost forever in the bottom of your purse.

Clearly the office supply store wants you to buy the expensive ones. Fancy ballpoint pens cover an entire wall in the pen section and set up a visual kaleidoscope. Nothing is “plain,” and yet I cannot clearly understand the distinctions among the infinite range of choices. Should I be more discerning? Eventually I track down the 60-for-six-bucks box of pens—they are off to one side, down at shin level. Five minutes later, I return them to the bin because I have accidentally discovered the Clearance section in the store, where I find 60 equally nondescript ballpoint pens for only three bucks. Thrift wins again.

But where was I? The proliferation of choices in everything from ballpoint pens to breakfast cereal makes shopping more of an adventure than I like. Also I fear that the appearance of “new and improved” versions bumps the “old favorites” I look for. Indeed, I remember trying to buy a certain brand of bath soap for my old dad. The yellow bar of Dial soap, the kind he’d been using since WWII, was no longer to be found, and he wasn’t happy about it.

Please don’t give me “new and improved” in a million different ways. Hunting and gathering was never meant to involve so many decisions. I’m just going to quit and go home.

 
THE AISLE NOT TAKEN
 
Two aisles diverged in a CVS,
And sorry I had to stop and guess,
A lonesome shopper, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it appeared I’d find success,
 
Then took the other, as straight a line,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it displayed a likely sign;
Though as for that, these eyes of mine
Could scarcely discern a product name.
 
On shelf after shelf the boxes lay
With every size and every brand
In a vast and colorful array.
Oh! How could I make a choice that day?
My brain cells failed to understand.
 
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Sometime many a headache hence;
Two aisles diverged–bumfuzzled, I–
I took the one to Exit by
And fled from the place in self-defense.
 
 

Barbara Loots
 
Published in Windshift