A cumbersome world

A young person is walking toward us. At a glance, it’s hard to tell if they’re male or female. Suddenly, they stop and start shaking their head as if they’ve lost something. I stop too, looking around just like them.

They’ve got a large bag slung over their shoulder, earphones in their ears, a cell phone in one hand, a coffee cup in the other, and a cigarette in their mouth. A beanie, scarf, and gloves complete the outfit.

“Why are they wearing and holding so many things?”
my husband mutters as we walk side by side. We lock eyes with the young person for a brief second. They’re bundled up in several layers of clothes because of the cold. Only their face is visible, but even that is half-hidden by thick black-rimmed glasses and a lip piercing.

“When we were growing up, we didn’t need all that. What’s the world coming to? Do they really need all that stuff?”
my husband says, clicking his tongue.
“You say it like it’s someone else’s problem. Our kids are no different,”
I reply.

Whenever I happen to walk into the kids’ rooms, I’m overwhelmed by all the clutter around their desks.
“What is all this? Do you actually need it?”
I ask, but they hate when I touch anything. They say everything is necessary and important. It’s nothing like my childhood, when all I had on my desk were books. Their closets are full of different kinds of clothes, their shoe racks packed with shoes of every type, and they have workout gear and musical instruments, too.

Even the things they ask me to buy are all so specific.
“I saw something like that already on your desk.”
“Mom, that’s different from what I want to get.”
“How is it different? Just use that one!”
“You always say no even though you don’t understand what it is.”
“Is it really something you need?”
I ask, and then feel silly for even asking.

My husband once went to Home Depot and didn’t come back for hours.
“Did you run into someone? What took so long?”
I asked when he finally returned.
“Who would I meet? There were just too many options. I had to compare everything, read all the labels. Even then, I couldn’t figure out what most of it meant,”
he said, collapsing on the couch from exhaustion.

Every time I go to the local supermarket, I’m overwhelmed too. Thousands of products line the shelves, packed tightly with no gaps. I wonder how many of them I actually use. I’m amazed that all these items are being consumed—tailored to the tastes and preferences of people from all different backgrounds.

Everywhere I go, there’s just so much of everything. And now that I’m older, my memory fails me more often. I frequently forget where I’ve put things. I open doors, the fridge, the car, and forget what I was about to do.

Last summer, I even lost a pair of shoes I really liked. I had taken them off, opened the car door, and driven away. It wasn’t until I mentally retraced my steps—opening all the same doors again—that I remembered what had happened. Trying to jog our memories through repeated actions—this is how we live now in a world that feels endlessly complicated.