I walked into the grocery store the other day to buy
peanut butter, so I could eat it with some carrots later that day. In the
peanut butter aisle I was assaulted with the amount of choice I faced. I found
four different brands of peanut butter – Skippy, Whole Earth, Meridian and Sun
Pat. Each brand offered me at least two options – chunky, creamy and some even
offered a “smooth” type of peanut butter (not quite sure if that was any
different from creamy). The difference in prices and branding was sending
me a clear signal of what each type of peanut butter meant: Skippy was telling
me – “this is the flavor of your childhood. It’s true we’re more expensive
than the off brand, but you’re worth it”, Whole Earth was telling me- “if
you’re concerned about your body and even only somewhat environmentally
conscientious, this is the peanut butter you want”, Meridian was telling me
“you don’t have to compromise on flavor for an environmentally safe choice”,
and price-wise placed itself just below both Skippy and Whole Earth; and Sun
Pat looked like a cheap imitation of Skippy, assuming that pricing itself at 60
percent of the cost of all the others would distinguish it anyway.
The question that these brands had all demanded of me
was – which type of consumer am I? Up until a few years ago, as a relatively
low income individual I never had to ask myself this question, since I knew
that I was a consistent off brand consumer and I always chose the cheapest item
on the shelf. I couldn't really afford to be environmentally aware and
pay a social justice/eco-friendly tax on my consumer goods – I just felt that I
didn't have the available income to even ponder such a question. I
justified this easily by remembering the hours and days of volunteering for the
very causes these brands were raising their prices for. But now that I
volunteer less and have a little bit more available income I decided not to
strictly consume from the bottom of the shelf. But what shelf should I choose
from?
I paced the aisle hesitantly, trying to define myself
to myself. I picked up the jar of Skippy and was flushed with memories of
my mom making me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in a pita for school (which
received ridicule from all my friends because PB&J was not a thing in
Israel). But as I looked at the price again, I immediately felt guilty to spend
such an amount on something like peanut butter. The price itself didn't
signal – “I am a luxury item!” but its relative price was higher than others,
and all I was paying for was a memory of childhood that was accompanied with
mild thoughts of pubescent derision. There was no added value here. There was
no contribution to my health or my planet, so why would I pay a higher price
for something like that? So I picked up the jar of Whole Earth peanut butter
instead to see if I liked how I felt about myself as an “organic do-gooder”
type of consumer. I immediately shuddered at the thought of being that guy – a
cliché of himself; the guy who used to be a social activist, who fought for
something greater than himself but gave up, and now buys the Whole Earth brand
to make up for the guilt he experiences of being a cog in the capitalist system
of consumer oppression and simply accepts that this is his contribution to the
world. Had I given up on myself, on change, on being meaningful in exchange for
the quaint feeling of consuming a quasi-guilt free product? I returned the jar
to the shelf and walked around for a second to calm down.
I returned to the peanut butter shelf once again,
expecting my arduous elimination process to yield at least some relief from the
burden of making a choice. It was only peanut butter after all. I had decided
to settle on either Meridian or Sun Pat. And as I browsed through the
selection, I once again remembered that Sun Pat had not been an option at all,
since I no longer considered myself a “bottom shelf” consumer. But Meridian
seemed like such a lackluster choice – it felt dreary and uninspiring (yes, I
am still talking about peanut butter here). I was pushed into a compromise I
was not yet ready to settle for, and my eyes wandered across the shelf to
suddenly see Skippy once again in a new light. Maybe I really do deserve
it, why wouldn't I “explore the possibilities” as their slogan implored of me
to do. Explore! I am an explorer! Or at least I want to see myself as such.
The gentle caress of a decision began wrapping me in
its tenderness, unravelling in my gut. I envisioned the mouth-watering
explosions I would experience in the chunkiness that is Skippy, combined with
the delicate crunch of a carrot as my evening snack, and I picked up the Skippy
from the shelf and began walking to the counter. I had made a choice and it was
liberating.
As I enter the queue (this is London after all) and
wait patiently for other people to pay, the doubt and questioning that had
engulfed me and dissipated emerged with a vengeance. Nooooo! I was frozen
almost mid-step, unable to proceed even though the line had moved on and the
polite Brits behind me gave me a glaring look of “WTF dude, the queue is
moving, get with it”. Was I really a Skippy person? What did I do that made me
feel like I deserved this holy of holies of the peanut
butter selection? At what point did I accept being an entitled asshole
who feels that Skippy, of all the acceptable choices in that shelf, was not
only what I found to be a justified choice but who I was? And
besides, when did I agree to be manipulated into this thought process in which
I evaluate a product based on the signal it’s sending me as a consumer? Was
that all I was, a consumer? Maybe I shouldn't let peanut butter belittle me
like that.
I looked up to see a three foot gap in the consecrated
queue, a transgression no self-respected Englishman would accept in a
conciliatory fashion. I submissively advanced to find myself next in line at
the counter. This was it, the moment of truth, was I really a Skippy
person? I was deeply contemplating the gravity of such a decision about
who I was and how I defined myself. And as I was wrestling with what felt at
that moment like the very core of my being for some reason William
Wallace (in the form of Mel Gibson, of course) descended from the ceiling with
an endless line of Scotsmen behind him, ready to follow through on his promise
of liberation and waltz into battle. His eyes glimmered with the weight of
battle, death and destruction at his doorstep and bellowed, at me, “you can
take my life, but you can never take MY FREEDOOOM”.
I hastily and yet quietly exited the line (it’s a line goddamit, not a
queue) and placed the jar of Skippy, and some of my self-esteem on the discount shelf. I walked out of the
store ashamed, lonely and hungry, and wondered what I would eat now.
I was still hungry after all.
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