Black Friday shoved its way into Thanksgiving Day. This year, people are starting to push back.
|Feeding the homeless in front of the White House on Thanksgiving Day 1963.|
For most of the year, we good people keep our heads down and push forward, the little mantra of just keep swimming, just keep swimming sloshing between our ears. It's easier that way, we reconcile. Somehow better.
Let's not sell ourselves short, though. We make time around Thanksgiving to tread a little water and look around and take stock in what it is that keeps our legs kicking brightly in the water. We do this to ourselves, we say, because it rewards us. Our labors deliver fruit, and for these fruits we're thankful.
This year, however, feels a little different. In the stock market angst of fourth quarter dividend shares, commercial retailers have broken the seal and planted their SALE! SALE! SALE! flags right on the cornbread-stuffed butt of our turkey feasts. They're waving their irresistible wares under our noses, and the scent is so strong it distracts us from the pumpkin pie our beautiful aunt made.
It speaks to our collective fear of missing out, now branded and acronymed FOMO; as if Facebook and Instagram weren't doing enough to dig into our fragile psyches to remind us we're not in on the good stuff, now we have amazing deals too good to pass up to tie on our dockets, deals that can only be had if we cut short our family meal, rush to our suburban shopping centers, and endure the madness that is, well, the opening of Christmas.
From the thirty-thousand-foot view, folks, the shorthand is this: Let's take time to be grateful, but before we get too comfortable doing that, let's rush out to buy things on sale.
It's hard escaping the label of Generation Y. Crazy lists about mistakes to avoid don't help you.
There's nothing like an ad-driven blog post with a title like "20 Mistakes You Don't Want to Make in Your 20s" to grab people's attention, and when a former student of mine posted this article on her Facebook page, I found it too irresistible to pass up reading.
This, of course, being an opportunity to gauge the author's advice against My Very Own, Shiny Decade, or Yours Truly's 20s.
What I found really bothered me.