Chain of Fools

Somewhere in the world a mentally unstable person (we’ll call her Ethel) is reflecting on the terrible events of her life. Ethel remembers all the promises made to her over the years, by friends, her parents, her boyfriends, the politicians. She remembers all the promises that were never fulfilled. Ethel is angry…very angry. She has a steely glint in her eye. She’s plotting her revenge. Then her computer catches her eye, and a plan takes shape in her mind. Ethel smiles for the first time in years; finally she has come up with the perfect way to punish all the people in the world who’ve ever broken a promise. Ethel shuffles in front of the computer and starts typing. She’s typing a CHAIN EMAIL.

Ethel is a smart girl - the most dangerous type of lunatic one can find in this world. She understands what makes people tick; she knows how to play with people’s emotions. First she decides on her methodology. Will she go the spiritual/ religious route, or will she just go for the jugular and appeal to the inherent greed evident in most people. Oh, what the hell, she’ll just do one of each.

So, Ethel types and types. She has a plan and it looks like this:
1. Appeal to a person’s need to feel special, as if they are one of a chosen few: “I have received this email and decided to pass it on to 10 special people/ 15 strong women/ 20 deserving friends.” (the lower the number, the more special they feel)
2. Appeal to people’s desire for miracles: “This really works!!!!! My wish came true/ I had a money windfall on Tuesday” (people will believe and do anything if you add this sentence)
3. OPTION A - Appeal to a person’s spiritual/ religious sensibility: “Read the prayer below and then make a wish.” (it’s even better if you add some saintly or biblical name, like “St. Theresa’s prayer” or “Mary Magdalene’s prayer"). OPTION B – Appeal to a person’s greed: “A blessing is coming to you in the shape of money.”
4. Add the prayer in the case of Option A OR add something random like a picture of cascading money in the case of Option B
5. Add some false references from others who’s wish came true, or people who had a cash windfall.
6. Now comes the part where you get others to spread the false promise: “Send this to 10 special people/ 15 strong women/ 20 deserving friends.”
7. Appeal to people’s innate scepticism, by adding something pseudo-scientific: “The more people you send this to, the faster your wish will come true.”
8. The MOST important thing is to add a threat: “If you don’t forward this in the next 10 minutes, you will have bad luck/ poverty for a year.” (this is usually the line that clinches the deal, as people are inherently superstitious)

Ethel sends the email with a satisfied smile:
From: ethel@nutcase.com
To: sad_friends@gullible.com

2 years later the email is still making the rounds. It has traveled the globe. It has given people false hope. It has made people more cynical.

I have learned my lesson by now; I have passed on my fair share of chain emails and they have NEVER resulted in some kind of miracle or windfall. So, now I delete them. I particularly dislike the threat at the end of the email – what kind of friend would I be if I wished people potential bad luck or poverty? And just for the record: I have deleted many of these emails and I have never experienced poverty or bad luck due to this very sensible decision on my part.

Let’s face it people: THERE ARE NO FREE LUNCHES! Money will not roll into your bank account just because you forwarded a silly email. Chain emails do not lead to miracles. That does not mean that I don’t believe in miracles. I just don’t think miracles wait for some chain email to come around, before bestowing its blessings on people. It’s much more likely that these chain emails contain some kind of computer ‘worm’ (or whatever they call those things), that automatically sends all email addresses on the chain email back to the source of the email (this, by the way, is not fiction, like the false promises in a chain email). This is how unethical businesses build their databases for spam. Have you ever wondered where all those unsolicited emails, advertising some new ointment for erectile dysfunction, come from? At this point I would just like to thank all my friends who have ever sent me a chain email – my inbox is filled with spam, thanks to you. Love you guys!!

Now lets get back to Ethel. If anyone can tell me where she lives, please send me her address. I have a petrol bomb with her name on it.

Marriage Mirage

The way single people (especially women) view marriage can be compared to a mirage. From afar it seems as if it will fulfill all your fantasies. After years of crossing the desert of single life, marriage shimmers and beckons in the distance, promising an oasis of delights. When you finally get there, it turns out to be nothing more than another endless swathe of desert sand. I’ve been married for almost 9 years, and all I can say is: if you want water in the middle of the desert, you better be prepared to dig for it.

Thanks to my parents’ divorce, I was armed with a decent sized shovel and a pair of sand goggles, by the time I decided to get married. Other women spent vast portions of their childhood dreaming about their perfect wedding day. When I hear this, my eyes involuntarily roll back in their sockets. As a child I dreamed about doing open-heart surgery (on my science teacher), or perhaps being a rock star (so I could get fat and drunk and still be considered a hot item, like Janis Joplin). But my wedding day? Never!

My cynicism helped me circumnavigate one of the major first hurdles in any marriage: The Wedding. I skipped the whole circus of tiered cakes and puffy meringue-style wedding dresses, instead opting for a secret, minimalist affair at a magistrates’ court (just Paul and I and two cleaners working at the court, who acted as our witnesses). I’ve been to a few weddings in my life. If I had to file memories of these weddings under a single heading, I would call it “Four Weddings and an Aneurysm”.

The father of the bride usually starts taking heart medication within the first month after the engagement, as he helplessly watches money seep out of his account. The bride and her mother usually stop talking to each other right around the time when they start making decisions about flowers, dresses, cakes and invitations. Somewhere some poor sod suddenly discovers that he has an incurable stutter, just after agreeing to make a speech at the wedding.

The most ‘sacred’ marriage ritual is saved for a few nights before the wedding: the stag night and hen party (bachelor and bachelorette party). Traditionally this party was a symbolic send-off to the happy couple, a way of society honouring the sacred union they are about to enter. Today the send-off has been transformed into something of comic-tragic proportions. The men aim to get as drunk as possible, so they won’t notice how ugly the stripper is. If the groom is lucky, he walks away with a hangover and the memory of some “babe” grinding her groin in his face (the latter may cause the groom to sport Pinkeye on his wedding day). The bachelorette party generally is a pretty sad affair – the bride-to-be spends most of the evening worrying about what her man is up to at the bachelor party. The bachelor party is the cause of the first big fight in the marriage.

The wedding day is filled with pitfalls and bizarre moments. The wedding dress doesn’t fit any more; the bride and her mother have a final screaming match. The original concept of an intimate wedding with a Moroccan theme held in a unique location, is now a party for 200 people held in a school hall, where the only thing vaguely Moroccan is the faux Persian carpet in the entrance hall. At some point the DJ plays “Achy Breaky Heart” and everyone becomes an expert line-dancer. It’s soon clear that nobody knows the steps, so instead they opt for the choo-choo-train maneuver (you know, the one where they all fall in line behind each other and snake around the room). There’s always one show-off, who believes he has the makings of a great breakdancer – this is the drunken guy who does the The Worm maneuver on the ground, ending up looking like the Man from Atlantis out of water.

The real challenge starts once the wedding is over, and the married couple has to get back to real life. What used to seem so exciting and novel, now becomes mundane. Communication becomes a major challenge, as they each struggle to decipher their partner’s strange language. I pity men - they are such simple creatures with such simple needs. When they say “I’m tired”, it means “I’m tired”. When they say “I’m hungry”, it means “I’m hungry”. Women have a completely different way of expressing their needs and feelings.

Women always put emphasis on the importance of communication. What we actually mean with ‘communication’, is that we want our partner to be quiet and listen while we communicate. Occasionally our men have to say just the right thing at exactly the right time, or all hell breaks loose. Men are quick learners, and they manage to master a few basic communication skills while dating women (for purely selfish reasons, of course). Here are a few examples of what a guy might say to a girl when they start dating:
- “Can I take you out for dinner?” (What he’s really saying: “I want to have sex with you”)
- “That’s a very pretty dress” (What he’s really saying: “I want to have sex with you”)
- “I grew up in Grabouw. I have 1 sister and 2 brothers.” (What he’s really saying: “I want to have sex with you”)

Once our hero finally succeeds in bedding the heroine, another scenario follows which perfectly demonstrates the difference between men and women. The woman’s mind is going at the speed of light, analyzing and reliving every moment: “That was amazing…I wonder if he noticed that I didn’t shave my legs…I love him…I wonder if he feels the same way…he’s perfect…maybe he doesn’t like small breasts.” On and on it goes. Meanwhile our hero lies besides her thinking: “I’ve got a huge fart. I wonder if she’ll notice if I let it slip right now. Aaah, that’s better. Snore…”

Communication is most severely challenged for roughly one week out of every month. It’s the time of the month when a woman’s body is temporarily invaded by a demonic body-snatcher. It’s called PMS (Psycho Monster She-devil). Men may try to outwit this demon, but it is impossible. Whether they choose to speak, stay silent, hug her, don’t hug her, laugh, don’t laugh, whatever, they will be in trouble.

So, it’s no surprise that marriage is the challenge it is. Throw into the mix a few kids, debt, home improvements, in-laws and demanding careers, and you have a super deluxe catastrophe on your hands. Negotiating a peace treaty between Israel and Palestine is a walk in the park compared to the politics of marriage.

My advice to all would-be brides and grooms is: when you compile your wedding gift registry, be sure to add the following items to it: a pair of non-rose-tinted spectacles, a decent shovel, sand goggles, and (for wealthier guests) an earthmover. Happy digging!

Let's Play Doctor-Doctor

We’ve all been extremely ill at some time or another. It’s scary. So scary, in fact, that we will follow any advice given to us by an expert. We’ll allow strangers to touch us in ways we won’t even let our loved ones touch us. “Having problems with your colon? I have just the thing for you”, says the doctor. “Just pull down your pants, lie on your side, and I’ll stick this probe up your anus.” We nod our heads, pull down our pants, without any hesitation, and even manage a smile. Boy, this might even be fun!

I find the relationship between doctors and patients quite disconcerting. In a way, doctors remind me of clergy. We put so much faith in these mere mortals, trusting their knowledge and moral values to be of the highest standards. We’re so intimidated by religion and medicine, that we blindly accept the need for an intermediary.

It’s not as if most doctors are trying to empower patients. No, they prefer to keep the mystery alive, to keep patients in the dark, so that we will continue trusting them without question. They speak in medical jargon, more foreign to the ear than Mandarin. They point at X-rays and CT scans, using 20-letter words to explain a diagnosis, as if the patient should know exactly what they’re talking about. Meanwhile, all you see when you look at the scan is a picture not much different from a Rorschach inkblot test (Ooh, that dark spot looks just like a butterfly!).

Even their handwriting is indecipherable – medication prescriptions seem to be written in code, as if the doctor is sharing a secret with the pharmacist (Prescription: Give Ms. Smith 20 pills – just make sure they’re bitter, because then she’ll believe that they’ll cure her sinusitis. Oh, and throw in a few diet pills, because her ass is really fat).

We gratefully accept the prescription, pleased to know that all our problems will now be solved. On the way out you pass the receptionist, who hands you a bill for R500-00. The itemized bill is also written in code (ICD-10 Procedural Codes for medical aid purposes):
• 40H00Z (translation: putting up with a hypochondriac for a full 5 minutes!!)
• 67X0l0 (translation: sticking a ice cream stick in patient’s mouth and having her say “Aaaah”)
• 35L09D (translation: shining a light in patient’s ear, as it’s mandatory no matter what’s wrong with the patient)
• 683J04 (translation: an extra charge for having to breathe in the patient’s foul breath)
• 2G03T8 (translation: a little something extra, so I can add more to my kid’s university fund)

Then you drive to the nearest pharmacy to collect your placebos. Here you’re faced with one of nature’s most inexplicable phenomenon: the fact that the pharmacist is always standing on a platform and looking down on patients. Honestly, what’s up with that? The strange thing is that I have actually asked a few pharmacists about the raised platform phenomenon, and none of them could ever explain the reason for it.

Finally you get home and pop the first of many tablets. Most people leave it at that. If you’re like me, you continue to read the information sheet inside the medication package. Curiosity inevitably turns to horror when I reach the Side-Effects section. This section usually includes scary words like: hemorrhage, mania, heart failure, decreased libido, and kidney failure. So, my sinusitis will be cured, but I’ll end up being a bleeding maniac, with a marriage in ruins due to my decreased libido, while trying to pass a kidney stone. Just great! Thank heavens for the risk of heart failure – at least death will bring an end to my living hell!

I don’t even want to get into expressing my thoughts on pharmaceutical companies. Suffice it to say that the anagram for the word “Pharmaceutical” is “A malpractice, Uh!” I’ll just end my rant about the medical profession with the following food for thought: Have you ever wondered why it is that a doctor’s place of work is called a “practice”? It’s worrying, to say the least.

Brand Me Famous

Have you ever Googled your own name? Come on, just admit it: You’ve indulged in the ultimate narcissistic pastime, haven’t you? Well I have done it…several times, in fact – each time hoping for a different result.

I’m the only Tanya Nel I know, which used to make me feel unique and rather special. However, I discovered that there is in fact an entire army of Tanya Nels out there, when I Googled my name. And, horror of horrors, they all seem to be more “famous” than I am. Every few months I repeat the process, hoping that my name will appear at the top of the search results list, along with an extensive list of commendations on my extremely important contribution to this world.

Surely I deserve some praise for my generosity. For example, the fact that I pay a small fortune to car guards every day (for foreign readers who may not know what car guards are: car guards wear bibs, give gap-toothed smiles, and make grasping gestures with their hands – yes, I know this sounds like a description of a baby, but the difference is that a car guard expects to be paid for this behaviour). Surely I deserve some Internet recognition for my contribution to world peace. For example, I don’t have any nuclear weapons in my back yard, which is more than American president Barack Obama can say, and he’s just been awarded a Nobel Peace Prize.

Andy Warhol predicted that in future everybody would be famous for 15 minutes. I first became aware of fame when Britney Spears released her first album (a multi-platinum seller) at age 16. I was 23 years old at the time and experienced my very first bout of depression, when I realized that a teenager was more successful and making more money than I ever would in my entire life. It probably had something to do with the fact that she danced suggestively in a school dress and pigtails – I’ve considered doing the same, but Teasers strip club is the only venue willing to host my performance.

The fame phenomenon continued to grow since then; everybody wanted to stake their 15-minutes-of-fame claim. Thanks to the Internet this became possible for mere mortals. The concept of creating a personal brand and becoming visible on the Internet has become a major priority for most people.

One way to become visible is by joining a social network. My first entry into the world of Internet social networking was via Facebook. Initially I was overwhelmed by insecurity: what photo should I display as a profile image? Perhaps a photo of myself surrounded by friends, to show how popular I am. Or a particularly sexy photo, to make my ex-boyfriends squirm with regret. Once I chose the profile photo, I had to deal with the calamitous reality that I had a pathetic number of Facebook friends. What would people think? I frantically searched for every person I ever knew in my life, hoping they would accept my friend request.

Internet visibility is about much more than just social networking; it’s about making yourself as desirable as possible. The aim is to get people interested in you, your skills, your product, or whatever else you’re trying to “sell” via your Internet image. The Internet is a fantastic tool. Unfortunately it’s also a source of endless BS – searching for factual information on the Internet is a bit like shopping at a second-hand clothes shop: you have to schlep through a ton of crap to find a gem.

I love using e-mail and the Internet. For one, I’ve made lots of new Nigerian friends, who’ve promised to send me millions of dollars in exchange for a small initial administrative fee – I’m still waiting for the millions to roll in, but I’m absolutely sure it will happen. I’m also grateful for all the spammers, including American agencies that send me weekly Green Card lottery applications (I wonder whether they would stop if they knew I had Muslim friends). Aah, the Internet is such a friendly place, filled with so many helpful, generous people.

Now I’m off to post another pointless status update on one of several social networks - I know my friends and followers can’t wait to read that I’ve just eaten broccoli for dinner and that I have a foot fungus. But which social network will it be? MySpace? Twitter? Facebook? Or maybe all 3? Yes, I think I’ll settle for My Twit Face.

Howareyou?

In South Africa we have this habit of automatically saying “Hi, howareyou?” when we meet people. The usual response: “Fineandyou?” We don’t think about it, we don’t actually care about the other person’s response; we just say it and get it over with. Sometimes we eagerly skip straight to the response, without waiting for the other person to first inquire into our well-being (“Hi, fineandyou?”), which causes a moment of social discomfort for both parties.

Occasionally you’ll greet an elderly relative and they’ll respond with: “I’m okay,” (whiny tone of voice) “I’m just having trouble with my knees.” (Groan, sigh, knee rub, headshake) “I think it’s the weather. My joints always complain when …” Two seconds into the monologue they’ve already lost me – depression hits me and I start longing for a Minora blade and a hot bath.

In the 80’s Dale Carnegie Fever hit the world. Everybody read his book “How to win friends and influence people” and memorized his social guidelines. The first rule was to smile when speaking to someone. So, people spent hours in front of the mirror trying to coax their lemon-sucking lips into a warm smile. Then they went out into the world, applying this and other techniques on everyone they encountered. The result was astounding: Everyone smiled back. Of course they did not consider the fact that all the other people were also following Carnegie’s guidelines. So, suddenly the world was full of smiling people, who made each other feel great, in a warm and fuzzy kind of way.

The Carnegie memo was sent out to everyone whose business required dealing with other people (unfortunately a major administrative error resulted in the memo not reaching the Civil Service). Sales reps, estate agents and business executives flocked to Dale Carnegie seminars. It turned out that you could make a lot of money out of people, if you managed to make them feel warm and fuzzy.

The Carnegie memo finally caught the attention of politicians. The days of ruling a country with an iron fist were over. The public wanted politicians who cared about them. Suddenly politicians were flashing brilliant smiles, doing victorious air-punches, hugging babies and patting disabled people on their heads (with gloves on – it may be contagious).

And so it was that we managed to create a world full of caring optimists, who said all the right things at the right time. It was during this era that visiting a shrink became a favourite pastime. The reason was simple: we were no longer allowed to have authentic relationships with people; we could no longer express our real feelings; we were expected to always be happy and “genuinely” interested in other people. In short, we were focused on other people’s happiness, rather than our own. So, a shrink became an essential ingredient in many people’s lives.

Sadly the Carnegie philosophy is still alive and well today, two decades after its introduction to an unsuspecting world. In essence I have no problem with optimism and making others feel good about themselves. It’s admirable, but only when it’s genuine, and when it’s not being used to manipulate people. I find that I’ve become very suspicious of people who are always happy and smiling. I can’t help but think: “What do they want from me? What are they hiding?”

I while back I watched the Oprah Show, which discussed the secret depression and unhappiness many people are suffering from. People stated how their friends, colleagues and family believed that they had the perfect lives. Outwardly their lives seemed perfect, yet all kinds of trouble were brewing and stewing below the surface. Every now and then one will read an article about a husband who killed his entire family or a child who shot pupils at a school. Usually the article includes a comment from a friend along the lines of: “He was such a nice man/ boy. I don’t know what could have caused him to do such a thing.” In desperation they’ll try to blame it on violent video games or Marilyn Manson.

The reality is that we are all carrying a heavy burden of secret fears, pain and depression. Yet, we are not allowed to express it. We’re forced to suppress it, like a giant pimple that grows and builds pressure just under the skin. Until one day a single event causes the pimple to burst to the surface, spilling all its ugliness out into the world.

I’ve decided not to let that happen to me. I’ll remain an optimist, but may occasionally choose to let off some steam. So, next time you say “Hi, howareyou?” don’t be shocked when I respond with: “Well, I’ve got a giant hemorrhoid and I hate my non-existent calf muscles.”

I remember when I was young...

A strange thing happened to me last week. A friend offered to lend me an audio seminar to listen to. Naturally I expected her to hand me a CD or maybe a memory stick with the files on. Instead she gave me this fat plastic thing, with 2 holes in the middle and what looked like a piece of ribbon wrapped around the holes. I stared at it, stared at it again and finally my memory bank came up with a name for this thing: A cassette tape.

I had not seen one of these since my pre-wrinkle days (a looooong time ago). Eager to listen to the seminar, I was suddenly confronted by the fact that I needed some kind of apparatus to play the tape. I did an archeological dig through cupboards and boxes - somewhere between the Bronze Age section and the 80’s section I found this bright yellow thing, with fat buttons on it. I dumbly pushed at the buttons like an ape woman, making guttural animal sounds. It was a discovery of immense magnitude – I had managed to excavate the mythical Walkman.

Playing the tape was a whole new experience. There was no simple way of skipping backwards and forwards to different tracks. This was a chronological process: Listen to side A, turn the tape around, listen to side B, turn the tape around, and only then could I get back to the start of the tape. Not only did I find it all very frustrating and slow, but I also discovered a lack of small-muscle control and dexterity in my hands. I have an overdeveloped SMS-thumb, a hand palm shaped like a computer mouse, and an index finger that wants to left-click with obsessive-compulsive regularity. Retrieving and turning a cassette was positively exhausting.

I never thought I’d be one of those people who'd say stuff like: “I remember when I was young…” Well, I was wrong. I remember when I was young you couldn’t create a latest hits CD by downloading tracks off the Internet. No, you had to sit by your radio on Saturdays, listening to the top 40, your finger poised over the record button. The skill lay in pushing ‘record’ just after the DJ uttered his last word, then you had to carefully listen to the song and try to figure out when the DJ would start speaking again at the end of the song.

You’d usually end up capturing the DJ’s first few words on tape. So, you had to quickly rewind and try to pinpoint the exact moment just before the DJ spoke, in time to record the next song (the anxiety caused by such a moment, would classify this process as an adrenaline sport). By the end of this process you’d end up with a tape filled with songs that started halfway through the first verse, ended halfway through the last chorus, interspersed with half-spoken words by the DJ. It was the era of the “mix-tape”.

I remember when I was young you also couldn’t send off an email to catch up with friends and family. No, you had to write a letter. You had to contend with pens that dried up halfway through the letter, forcing you to complete the letter in different coloured ink. There was no spell check and delete button to correct spelling mistakes. The end product looked like a dog’s breakfast: 3 different shades of ink, white blotches of Tippex, and blobs of smudged ink where the pen decided to vomit onto the page.

Then you had to put up with the postal service. It took at least 2 weeks for your letter to reach your cousin in Upington, another 2 weeks for your cousin to get her act together and write a reply, and another 2 weeks for her letter to reach you. By then you’d forgotten you even had a cousin and had moved on to bigger and better things.

The world has certainly changed a lot since then. We now live in the era of instant gratification, thanks to the wonder of technology. If I send an email and don’t get a response within an hour, I start badgering the recipient with repeat emails. If someone does not answer their cell phone, I feel offended: “How dare they not answer their phone?” Technology has brought many great luxuries into our lives, like iPods, the Internet, mobile phones and email. Unfortunately we now believe that this gives us the right to intrude on each others' personal space anytime and anywhere.

Sometimes I miss the days when personal space was still respected. I remember when I was young…

Post-Purchase Cognitive Dissonance

Sometime during my late twenties, a subtle shift occurred in my life. I went from having a “less is more” attitude to having a “more is more” attitude. I used to require a few basics to see me through any event: some cash, lip balm and…well, that was it. Now every excursion is a major palaver.

When my husband and I go to the beach these days, it looks like we’re packing for an army. There’s enough food to see us through a major catastrophe. Who knows, we might suddenly become the victims of an earthquake, a civil war, whatever.

My handbag has also grown in size with every birthday. I shudder to think what lies hidden in the depths of my bag. The truth is that I haven’t been able to reach or see the bottom of my handbag since the last millennium. So, I have good reason to worry about what I might find down there.

One day, after a long search for a missing item, I reluctantly opened my handbag, it being the only unexcavated item left in my house. Somewhere around mid-depth I retrieved a scarf I’d lost about two years earlier. As I dug deeper, a smell of decay started to emanate from the bag. I became very nervous. Was it possible that Madeline McCann, the little girl who disappeared in Portugal, was lying at the bottom of my bag? The thought was so distressing, that I immediately stuffed everything, including the scarf, back into the bag.

When I left university I moved to Namibia with one large suitcase and 2 boxes – these contained all my worldly possessions. Now I travel with the same amount of luggage when I go away for a week’s holiday. I have this lingering fantasy of backpacking through Europe. ‘Fantasy’ is the keyword here. If I had to travel across Europe now, I’d require a few ox wagons to carry all I’d need for the journey.

I’m currently doing my taxes, which means I’ve had to trawl through enough paperwork and receipts to stuff a king-size mattress. Reading through the receipts I started wondering whether they weren’t perhaps someone else’s. I couldn’t remember buying half the stuff. I recognized the daily necessities, like Lindt chocolate and coffee at Vida Café. Some of the items seemed like relatives I’d just been introduced to after being stricken with amnesia – I knew I was supposed to recognize them, but I simply did not.

I opened my closet to search for the item marked ‘Boots Brown’ on one receipt. Instead I found ‘Boots Brown x 3’. How did I justify buying another pair of brown boots, when there already were 2 pairs in my closet? I could only surmise that I had been suffering from a particularly potent form of PMS on that day – at least, as a woman, I have a scientific reason for being deranged one week out of every month.

Even though I hate shopping, I still can’t stop myself from buying more than I need. The worst is when I buy something, then walk past another shop minutes later, to discover a similar but much better and cheaper version of what I had just bought. We have named this syndrome Post-Purchase Cognitive Dissonance – basically, you immediately regret and despise a recent purchase. The best way to circumnavigate this syndrome is to instantly go into denial after a purchase – if you can’t remember it, you can’t regret it. Problem solved.

My husband went on a business trip to West Africa a couple of years ago. There he picked up a strange bug after eating chicken (they said it was chicken, but who would ever really know the truth). Other than suffering from nausea and diarrhea, he also had short bouts of memory loss. The first morning after his return he woke with a start and looked around our bedroom with big eyes. I was pretty terrified, as he clearly did not even recognize me. The thought occurred that he was probably experiencing a severe form of Post-Purchase Cognitive Dissonance, wondering how the hell he had ended up with all this stuff around him.

It reminds me of the Talking Heads song “Once in a lifetime”:
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself: “Well, how did I get here?”
And you may tell yourself: “This is not my beautiful house!”
And you may tell yourself: “This is not my beautiful wife!”
And you may ask yourself: “Am I right? Am I wrong?”
And you may tell yourself: “MY GOD, WHAT HAVE I DONE?”