A very demoralizing trip to Barnes & Noble
America is enduring a mental health crisis, and you need go no farther than your local Barnes & Noble bookstore to see evidence.
I was an avid journal-keeper for years and love all things paper, so I get a little giddy perusing the “stationery and gifts” section. Last weekend, however, rather than being energized by the prospect of filling one of those gorgeous, gilded, supple leather books with my most brilliant thoughts and sweetest sentimentalities, I was left feeling sad about the message sent by so many of the journals, planners, and gifts for sale. Judging from the featured items, you’d be led to believe America is a nation of depressed, exhausted, anxiety-ridden alcoholics. And for the most part, you’d be right.
The first item that caught my eye was an air freshener fashioned after the El Arroyo Tex-Mex restaurant marquee sign in Austin, Texas, famous for its amusing one-liners. Though miniature, this replica sign spoke volumes about our nation’s attitude. It said: “You Is Tired, You Is Broke, You Is Adulting.” LOLcat dialect aside, the message is clear: there isn’t much joy associated with being a grown-up.
Things got bleaker the next display counter over. A set of Fred brand “Who’s Counting?” wooden countdown blocks gives people the option to count down how many “days since wearing pants.” The sample number presented was 254. The back of the box suggested users also count the “hours until day drinking.” Other possible countdowns include the number of days “since leaving the house” and “showering.”
A pair of socks for sale nearby said, “He sees you when you’re drinking,” and by “he” they meant Santa Claus, not God. Another pair said, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas,” and by “white” they meant wine, not snow.
I moved on from alcoholism to something slightly less disturbing but still disheartening. The luxe Italian journals and charming notecards covered in vintage wildflower prints and classic Moleskines in every hue were still there to tempt me. But mixed among these delightful standbys were many more self-help-style books than I ever remember seeing. A sample of titles from the “Inner-Truth Journal” series: “I So Totally Got This,” “I’m Kind of Awesome,” “In My Humble Opinion,” “I’m Perfectly Imperfect,” and “I’m Gonna Keep My Heart Open.”
Other journal titles in this same vein included, “Goodbye, Anxiety,” “Purpose, Not Perfection,” “Let It Go,” “Big F*cking Dreams: A Journal for Building Your Brightest Damn Future,” “Healing Burnout,” and “My (So-Called) Dating Life.”
A few of the planners portended less a future of simple tasks and fun to-dos than sheer dread. “Choose Happy,” reminded one, implying that happiness, rather than being something that happens naturally, is a concept to be sought. Another book took what a more practical but much less bright approach with “not today, maybe tomorrow.”
A handful of planners were inexplicably aggressive — defiantly declaring that ambition is something to be angry about? — reading, “Carpe F*cking Diem,” “I Came, I Saw, I F*cking Conquered,” and “she believed she could so she f*cking did.” (I take the arbitrary upper and lowercase lettering as another indication of a manic populace adrift and unsure of itself.)
These and many more products struck me as a sign of where we are as a country: people are struggling mentally and practically. The fact that “adulting” is universally accepted as a state of perpetual poverty and exhaustion is emblematic of a broken system. Worse than that, though, is the bitterness hidden in plain sight at the bookstore.
This article was originally published by The Spectator. Read the full piece here.
