Here I was, having stripped a panel in great anticipation from my fast food cup to find I’d become a winner.
So I walked up to the young man at the counter to redeem my extra cup of coffee. I wouldn’t normally have two, but there’s no time like the present when you’re a winner.
You get the indulgence of an extra cup of coffee you don’t need, a moment of living like the rich and famous, and a small dose of heart burn for your trouble.
I could have continued my frugal ways by saving it for next time, but what if there was no next time?
What if the next time I returned was past the expiry date for redemption? I’d have missed out. And I’d have felt ripped off, and who wants to tempt such misfortunes?
As Ronald McDonald guides me through his maze of riches and desire, I find myself wanting more. “Free stuff” is a drug that’s hard to resist, and I’m the first to confess I’m heavily addicted. I love it. Can’t get enough. Will push walking sticks from the hands of the frail to get it.
It’s only then that I realise I’ve fallen victim to our modern world of consumerism which offers more for less, sometimes something for nothing, and always a taste of aspiration – a carrot of a world which contains just that little bit extra.
Next time I visit my fast food haunt, there will be new heights of expectation. Maybe I won’t need two cups of coffee, but I’ll want it because I’ll have tasted what life feels like with an extra shot.
It will be like having used bonus points to fly international business class. You’re making your next booking, recalling eight hours of deep-vein thrombosis being cured by stretched legs, warmed by a blanket which reaches all the way to your chin, and a back supported by pillows plush enough to support a weary head from one ear to the other.
You think of the glass from which you sipped your whiskey poured from a miniature bottle, and waking up fresh as you cleaned your teeth and entered customs with the same vigour as when you passed people in the economy line to check in with priority privileges.
Then you look at the price difference. Reality starts to bite, but not before you remember the last time you spent 14 hours with your calves burning under your armpits and your varicose veins about to burst onto the inside of your tracksuit pants.
You’d love to have been woken for your midnight lunch, but you won’t be because you’ve not been able to fall asleep in the first place.
And you’re tempted to pay the extra. Because “they” made you that way. “They” took you to the next tier. “They”, whoever “they” are, showed you that you can do better.
I realise that when I next buy my after shave and they throw in a sample bottle of anti-wrinkle cream to make me feel fresher and longer-living, that they’re pandering to my greed to have more – to be bigger, stronger, better looking.
And I feel dirty that I’ve been sucked in by their cunning plan, until of course I’m reminded by the Reserve Bank of Australia that the next rung on the ladder of life’s pleasures must – for now – remain elusive.
I must, they will tell me, pull in my purse strings. By all means be appreciative of your two cups of coffee. But Wayne, higher interest rates is rehab. An opportunity for you to ease your addiction.
If you don’t like flying economy, book a cruise, they’ll say.
But here’s the thing. I’m going to keep them guessing. I’m going to win this game against the consumer giants.
I’ll keep taking what they give me, because they won’t know of my strong will to resist their evil upsell. I’ll have a cupboard full of anti-ageing samples and two-for-one vouchers – all the while feeding the addiction to what I’ve become accustomed.
Hey Wanda, feel like a train trip? They’re offering a discount with our seniors card and I feel we should be cashing in.
