A world without shoppers

There once was a world without shoppers, but it didn't last long.

First created, humankind had nothing to really purchase. Certainly not a bad thing, to feel totally provided for. But it was just a matter of time before one person hankered after another's extra-plush fur-wear or vine-strap thongs, whether for sandals or underwear.

It seems likely that here began the trappings of materialism. What started as simple and sensible evolved over time toward modern-day excess, but a great many of us are now retreating into a "less is plenty" mode.

From a retail viewpoint this is at times devastating. The American dream of business ownership suffers a hard blow when people don't buy. Each closed door on a brick and mortar building represents much more heartache than the closed door can truly relate.

A bigger part of the American dream has always been home ownership; we work to buy a home and usually to nurture family life within it. If purchasing less "stuff" means the difference between staying in our homes or having to consider the streets, who can fault the choice to buy less stuff?

Even I, a retailer whose neon "OPEN" sign has wavered in conviction for all of thirteen years, can't.

How torn am I, I often mused, in a not-so-amused way. Surrounded for hours on end by my investment, lovingly staged and blaringly hopeful, of course I wanted, needed, hoped people would buy.

But buy for my benefit, or theirs? Did I really want to encourage purchases people couldn't afford to make? Did I really want people to buy indiscriminately, for my sake? Would it really cheer me up if a customer's purchase helped me meet my expenses at the end of the month, only to leave them short at theirs?

Such was my thinking throughout the whole thirteen years: "I hope people buy stuff today." "I don't blame them if they don't."

Early on, I injected soups and sandwiches to my venue, with comfy tables set amidst beautiful inventory.

Everyone needs to eat, I reasoned. Everyone will take a little sustenance and thus satisfied, take note of a little something else in the store besides. More people will come in when they learn I'm serving food, thereby exposing them to all else my place has to offer. A good plan, I thought, certain to work.

It did work, sort of. More people came in, enjoyed a modest lunch and ooohed and aaahed over merchandise they didn't really need.

And really didn't buy. What did happen is I brainstormed myself into a whole lot of hard work and a whole lot of overhead expenses. A whole lot more paperwork, and all the bureaucracy that comes with the highly regulated industry of foodservice.

I had worked myself into an even more stressful, not-for-profit business. But strangely, I was feeling alot more alive. I was meeting new people and making real friends. If I wasn't coming out ahead moneywise, I was receiving appreciation for work I still somehow enjoyed. And I was definitely experiencing a time in my life I could reflect back to and say, "I always wanted to try that, and I did."

As with most bigger things we try in life, there eventually comes the moment we realize our enchantment with an endeavor has run its course. "Been there, done that," becomes the mindset, and one just wants to get on to the next big thing.

Even if the next big thing is simply taking smaller bites.

Myself, I'd like to dabble in all of my favorite things and resist the urge to let any one of them turn into something unmanageable. With two retail "cohorts" (now dear friends) I'd like to get "webbed" feet--you know, go worldwide but stay in a wading pool of online sales. I'm looking to have time enough for the grandkids, and through this blog, keep up on the kind of writing I really love to do. I hope you'll follow!