Doing some quick math in my in-laws’ shower: My parents owned their house from the spring of 1994 until the fall of 2018. 14 years. No, 24.
I began visiting my in-laws in southwest Ohio in 2007. At what point will their home, which feels almost familiar as a place I grew up, and in some ways is, become a place I’ve been inhabiting for as long as my actual childhood home?
Technically the answer is 2031. But I feel it happening already. I come in, I say a soft hello to whomever is around. I serve myself some water to drink. Maybe a snack. I have hugs for whomever wants them. Little fanfare.
Photo by Scott Webb
I help myself to a shower if I want one before bed. What’s there to say about it? I was maybe 20 when I first used this shower. I’ve long been coming of age in this place I didn’t choose, where people I love welcome me and look after me and tolerate the collapse of my mind, body, spirit, and energy whenever I arrive for a visit “home.”
It has the same quirky faucet as my own childhood bathroom, one you have to pull down to toggle from bath to shower head. Both are plastic shells. My childhood shower’s shell had a ceiling to it that became claustrophobic as I grew to 6 feet tall in college. This shower doesn’t have that, but the floor creaks beneath it when I shift my weight.
I turn off the shower and reach past the curtain for my towel, which is hanging on a hook nearby. I don’t need to look for it or grope around. I am a guest with muscle memory of the premises.
Someone calls to me from outside the door. “We’re heading downtown,” my wife says. “Want to come?”
I don’t hesitate. “No,” I bellow back so she can hear me through the door. “I think I’m happy just being here.”
Pocket Dispatch From A Cafe Where People Are Studying
The young man across from me at the cafe is studying. He has announced this with a collection of multicolored highlighters, a stapled copy of textbook pages in impossibly small font, and a sweatshirt from a varsity team. He has announced he is concentrating by placing Bluetooth headphones in his ears that look like rotten candy from a movie theater.
But when an indie rock song plays over head, he betrays himself. He is drumming now, and precisely. As he mouths the lyrics, he performs the intricate ostinato with his pens as he reads. He knows the fills, the ghost notes, the rests. He follows the dynamics. He is air drumming on the ride cymbal when it’s actually hi-hat, but I suspect this is to avoid taking the absurd step of actually crossing his hands over the text he is studying.
At any rate it is clear there is nothing playing in his headphones. The rotten Dots are a farce. He only wishes not to be disturbed with conversation. This is ironic both because no strangers are striking up conversation in this cafe, and because it has freed me to do something arguably worse: Observe him intently, record my impression, and publish it on the internet.
Pocket Dispatch From A Cafe Where People Are Studying
The young man across from me at the cafe is studying. He has announced this with a collection of multicolored highlighters, a stapled copy of textbook pages in impossibly small font, and a sweatshirt from a varsity team. He has announced he is concentrating by placing Bluetooth headphones in his ears that look like rotten candy from a movie theater.
But when an indie rock song plays over head, he betrays himself. He is drumming now, and precisely. As he mouths the lyrics, he performs the intricate ostinato with his pens as he reads. He knows the fills, the ghost notes, the rests. He follows the dynamics. He is air drumming on the ride cymbal when it’s actually hi-hat, but I suspect this is to avoid taking the absurd step of actually crossing his hands over the text he is studying.
At any rate it is clear there is nothing playing in his headphones. The rotten Dots are a farce. He only wishes not to be disturbed with conversation. This is ironic both because no strangers are striking up conversation in this cafe, and because it has freed me to do something arguably worse: Observe him intently, record my impression, and publish it on the internet.
Pocket Dispatch On Deoptimizing My Life
The economy gigified right as I became a parent and my free time disappeared. My enthusiasm for tech, combined with my impatience, made me embrace the burgeoning culture of Everything On Demand. As transportation networks and delivery platforms overloaded with VC cash stormed legacy industries and crushed incumbent competitors, I cheered them on. The old school failed to innovate and someone came along to eat their lunch. I didn’t sympathize with the losers whining about it.
Of course we now know the innovators’ advantage was partly artificial. The gig platforms prioritized user—and worker!—acquisition over profitability, and hoards of eager investors subsidized that approach with miles of operating runway. Whom exactly was the customer remains unclear.
But it was thrilling at the time. Uber launched in 2011, and before the year was up, my wife and I sold our cars and moved back to Chicago. If we needed to drive, we rented Zipcars by the hour. Within a year and a half, we ordered our first groceries on Instacart, eliminating the need for a car almost completely.
Around the same time, we joined Amazon Prime. Now everything came to us, and we converted most of our consumable needs into subscriptions.
In 2014 we moved to a duplex in a lush neighborhood on the north side where we would later start our family. From our daughter’s arrival in 2016 to our son’s infancy during the Covid pandemic, the business of life I handled in our house increasingly resembled inventory management. I timed subscriptions to our rate of consumption, adding a buffer supply in some cases that I optimized to our available storage. This was a boon during the early pandemic toilet paper famine of 2020, but was a lifesaver in less dramatic ways even before: Guitar strings. Rechargeable batteries. Paper towels. Diapers. Liners for the diaper pail. Wipes. Tear-free shampoo. Hand sanitizer. Masks.
Many of the changes this wrought were predictable—and endless onslaught of packages, a fleeting sense of time recovered through convenience. Some were surprising, though: Dinner conversations became an exchange of product links as mutual compliments of home decor gave way to inevitable Amazon confessions.
The explosive growth of packages piled on America’s doorsteps gave way to an explosion of package waste and theft, and the traffic on inner city neighborhood streets became clogged with trucks from every carrier and the thieves who follow them. And then the stories of mistreated Amazon warehouse workers emerged, along with reports of Amazon’s union busting efforts.
Still other changes were so subtle it took a decade and a pandemic for me to notice them: With so few obligations—and eventually few opportunities—to leave the house, serendipity dissipated from my life. I not only stopped supporting independent and local businesses, I hardly knew which ones still existed.
I also stopped walking to do errands, and it showed on my body and in my mood. Our collective sprint toward idle consumerism promised us more time to do the things we love and value, but ultimately made me someone who did very little.
But then we got vaccines, then boosters, then more boosters, and eventually the veil dropped between me and the world. After nearly two years living in a part of Ohio where we could afford more open space and fresh air, we moved back to Chicago in the summer of 2022. I rekindled my love of city and neighborhood on foot. I walked to a store and bought a pack of toilet paper small enough to carry under my arm. Then I carried it four blocks home.
It wasn’t just suboptimal, it was completely inefficient. It may have been cheaper to buy in bulk online, but I wasn’t sure because I hadn’t updated my spreadsheet recently. (For a long time I thought of Amazon Prime as cheaper than buying in stores, but that theory had stopped holding up to scrutiny in recent years.) But I didn’t worry about the toilet paper getting to us on time, didn’t wonder if a thief would mistake the box for something valuable, and in fact didn’t have a box to contend with at all.
I kept this up for days, then weeks. I not only tolerated the inefficiency of short grocery lists and casual Target runs but relished it. It wasn’t long before I started running into friends on the sidewalk and recognizing strangers from the neighborhood.
We canceled our Amazon Prime membership, then Instacart. (Then later rejoined.) I noticed I was walking a ton, feeling happier and healthier, using my phone a tiny bit less, and getting my city legs back. My feet throbbed at first, but it didn’t last.
These little errands I do on foot instead of online afford me the serendipity of running into a friend on the street. Even when we only have time for a high five without slowing down (looking at you, Steve) is the kind of urban pleasure I’ve structured my life around. Why pay for a membership to an unsustainable service that denies me this experience?
I’m beginning to think the rhythm of my inefficient life will make it longer.
Photo 1 by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash
Photo 2 by Delaney Turner on Unsplash