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She’s an Unwilling Tool of Middleclassdom
By Marie C. Allen

Things like a three-bedroom home complete with swimming pool and gas barbecue, two cars, three stereos, two color TVs, a freezer, three hair dryers, a piano and appliances designed to make meal-preparation easier -- microwave oven, electric frying pan, bacon cooker, burger cooker, crockpot and, of course, electric can opener.

It's not that when we set up housekeeping we were bent on hedonistic consumption; it just crept in very unobtrusively.

Twelve years ago, when the two kids were preschoolers, we had everything we needed, or so we thought: a new house (without swimming pool and barbecue), two very small cars, a black-and-white TV, one stereo, a refrigerator with its own modest-sized freezer, an electric frying pan and the electric can opener. It was a sensible arrangement and, by comparison, small.

When the electric can opener gave up last year after years of dutiful service, I took a step toward the small-is- better school and bought a $2 manual one. Everyone laughed and said that maybe I also should fill in the pool with dirt.

Nevertheless, this small decision led to a reassessment of all the things I owned. Had they really made my life easier? I concluded that many were superfluous and required more upkeep than I had bargained for (not to mention the energy they consume).

How did I acquire so much? I think it all began about 10 years ago when, for the children's cultural enrichment, we bought a beautiful old (circa 1892) upright piano. First disappointment. Ensconced already in the heart of middle America, neither child would suffer lessons. Next came the nine-passenger station wagon, which obliged us to be the official local child movers, serving church and school events, girl scouts, Little League, the beach, the mountains, ad nauseam.

Then the black-and-white TV went out. The repair estimate was $112. Never mind, we said, we'll move on with our new status, and so we purchased a 23-inch color portable. Although I was an early advocate of limiting children's TV watching, one Christmas Grandma surprised the little darlings with their own 15-inch color portable. For use, she chose the crockpot and the bacon cooker. Bah, humbug!

In the early ’70s we abandoned stiff, phony-curl coiffures for the breezy, natural look - enter the first hair dryer. When child No. 1’s grooming schedule began to conflict with mine, she bought a second hair dryer, plus electric hair curlers. God only knows how the third hair dryer found its way into our midst, but child No.2 hoards it in his bedroom as though life would stop without it.

Before the children approached volatile adolescence -- and also before the energy crisis - it seemed imperative to put in a swimming pool; the gas barbecue was an unquestionably necessary accessory. On occasion, I still come close to igniting the back porch with the finicky thing. But onward.

Inflation hit, and the only sensible way to combat the cost of groceries was to buy a freezer. Something (not much, but something) was nudging me; I bought a used freezer. It was old, ugly, and opened like a coffin.

There's not much in the freezer these days. Now there are only three of us, and I work full time. The children's daddy, unlike many estranged fathers, not only takes a keen interest in their lives but also worries about their nutrition -- that is, he worries about their consumption of junk food. He insisted that we have a microwave oven, and I must admit that we do eat better, though deep down inside I still have doubts about its safety.
Now for the clincher. Even after my consciousness was gashed open to the brutal realization that we had inundated ourselves with things, a little over a year ago we acquired two - yes, two - more stereos. At the time, my daughter, 15, lived in her bedroom, participating in family interactions only at the breakfast and dinner table, never in the so-called family room where the family stereo stood. To her usually united-in-parenting parents, she ingenuously presented a case for desperately needing her own stereo. One of us relented. When her brother turned 15, who could show favoritism? This time I relented. Shortly thereafter, with three adults (?) of driving age at the mercy of Southern California’s geography, we made the ultimate purchase: a second gas guzzler.

There you have it. I spend my spare time, which I have precious little of, keeping all these things running. I have a plan, however. When my children depart (will they?), I intend to return to the skeleton of possessions I began with. No, I don't plan to be a martyr. But most of these things that perform modern miracles are really not very useful. After all, I’d rather barbecue on a hibachi than tamper with the unruly gas barbecue or clean the electric cookers; I’d rather walk on the beach than swim in the pool; I’d rather relax before dinner savoring the aroma of roast beef than electrocute it by microwaves; I’d rather ride my bike to work than drive my car -- anywhere. I don’t need a freezer, and I’m already sworn off the mindless tube, but I will keep the stereo. Also the piano; I may take lessons myself someday.

At last I understand Henry David Thoreau, who said that technology would make man a tool of his tools. I am dropping out of the conspicuous-consumption gang before I self-consumpt.