Two years ago I chronicled my virginal Black Friday experience. Yet despite that poor initial experience and the fact that Black Friday stands for almost everything I’m against… I caved and went again this year.
I rationalized it thusly:
1. Like 2 years ago, I was already awake. I didn’t get up for Black Friday.
2. I only planned on purchasing items I already intended on buying and even now will probably end up getting eventually. That is, no buying something simply because it’s deeply discounted.
3. It’s a tradition, it’s American, it’s vaguely family-oriented. Nevermind the fact I was alone.
I intended, in other words, to attend the orgy but keep my clothes on.
God/Circuit City rebuffed me. To punish my backsliding ways, I spent x hours (too embarassing to admit how many) pursuing my decadent aims only to be turned away within mere feet of my goal. SOLD OUT. Me and the products.
It was a long drive home. I had intended to soothe my conscience with new gadgets, gizmos, and gee-haws. Instead I had to own up to how disgusting and revolting Black Friday is. I was repulsed by the obscenity of the crowds, the rush, the madness, the greed — and shamed by my own complicity in the process. A process repeatedly endlessly every day really, but concentrated more vulgarly on one morning.
A morning, I should note, that was beyond brilliant. It was snowing. It was bright out, it was gorgeous. Nobody noticed.