Reluctant Consumer

I've always had a healthy suspicion of anything marketed as “life-changing." In my experience, that usually means it’s about to change your life in the same way a parking ticket does—unexpectedly and at your expense.

So I’ve made a quiet hobby out of resisting “the next best thing.” Not loudly. Not with placards or protests. Just a steady, stubborn refusal to join the queue while everyone else rushes off clutching rechargeable miracles and ergonomic promises.
Of course, this has led to a pattern in my life. A predictable one. I resist… I judge… I mock slightly… and then, years later, I buy the thing and wonder how I ever lived without it.

Take the electric toothbrush.
My wife bought one years ago. It hummed, it buzzed, it looked like it had been designed by someone who didn’t entirely trust manual brushing. I watched from a safe distance. Mostly because the thing always looked slightly… feral. Toothpaste crusted around the edges, a charging stand that had seen things, and a general aura of “this may or may not be hygienic.”
I stuck with my perfectly respectable, non-electrified toothbrush. It required no charging, made no noise, and crucially, didn't look like it might bite me.
Then we divorced.
Now, I’m not saying the electric toothbrush caused the divorce. That would be unfair. It definitely wasn’t the only factor, but suddenly, living alone, I found myself in a quiet bathroom with no one to judge me… except myself. And I cracked. I bought one. It was magnificent.
My teeth have never felt cleaner. It was like I’d been washing my car with a damp cloth for years, and suddenly someone handed me a pressure washer. I stood there, slightly dazed, thinking, So this is what progress feels like.

To this day, I consider it one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Right up there with moving to Australia. Possibly just behind it. Depending on how well the toothbrush is performing that week.

Then there was the stick vacuum.
Now, these always struck me as suspicious. Too light. Too sleek. Too… smug. I’d spent years dragging around a proper vacuum—one with a cord long enough to lasso cattle and a personality to match. It roared. It demanded effort. It made you earn a clean floor.
The stick vacuum, on the other hand, looked like it might apologise for picking up dust, so I resisted. For years, until one day, curiosity—or possibly laziness—won. I bought a second-hand one, just to see what all the fuss was about.
Within minutes, I was gliding around my unit like a man who had discovered fire. No cords. No unplugging. No dragging a reluctant machine through doorways as if it owed me money. Just… movement. Freedom. Efficiency.
I actually started looking for an excuse to vacuum. Which is not a sentence I ever thought I’d say.
When that one eventually died, I didn’t mourn it. I replaced it immediately, like a man who knows he cannot go back to the old ways. The corded vacuum now sits in the cupboard like a retired heavyweight boxer—respected, but only invited to participate when a deep clean is required.

And then… the sandals.
Ah yes. The sandals.
For years, I had very strong opinions about sandals. None of them was positive. Especially when combined with socks, which I considered a crime against both fashion and basic human decency.
Meanwhile, Queensland was doing what Queensland does—turning the air into something you could almost drink. My feet swelled, protested, and generally behaved as though they were trying to escape my shoes.
I endured it. Heroically, I felt, until one day, while not looking for sandals (because that would imply weakness), I saw a pair I didn’t immediately hate. This was new.
I tried them on. That was my first mistake.
They were comfortable. Not just comfortable—ridiculously comfortable. The sort of comfort that makes you question every life choice that led you to closed shoes in a subtropical climate.
I bought them, and just like that, I became… a sandals man.
No more swollen feet. No more quiet suffering. Just cool, sensible, slightly suspiciously happy feet.
A week later, I bought a second pair.
This, I told myself, was a strategic decision. I would alternate them weekly to extend their lifespan. A system. A plan. A man in control.
In reality, I just liked them so much I panicked at the thought of being without them.
They’re currently at the bottom of my wardrobe, waiting for their seasonal return. And when they come back out, I will greet them like old friends who once saved me from Queensland-induced foot rebellion.
So yes, I remain cautious about “the next best thing.” But history suggests this: eventually, I will buy it… years too late… slightly begrudgingly… and then declare it one of the greatest decisions I’ve ever made.
SJC 2026