I’m a sucker for a good deal. I’ll buy anything that’s fifty percent off, even if I don’t need it; that’s how I ended up with nine misprinted beach towels. Why not? We could have “Fun at the Boach!” So, when the Bumperizer 3000 was on sale for half price, I gleefully bought it. “New and improved!” the box yelled, “the Bumperizer 3000 gives you 900% more volume in your hair! Our tried and tested Fragulater will boost your limp locks sky-high! Children and dogs will get lost in your towering forest of hair! BUY YOURS TODAY!” I knew this gadget probably wouldn’t change my life, or my hair. But what if it did? What if, after years of disappointments, the Bumperizer was the one thing to give me hair as towering as Marge Simpson’s? After an hour of trying, my lifeless strands confirmed that I had wasted my money. My hair was more wilted than a wedding bouquet. Just like my mane, the Bumperizer’s claims had fallen flat.
From the “whisper-quiet” blender that roared like an army tank, to the wrinkle cream that gave me a rash, I’ve spent hundreds on snake-oil products. All of them promised an easier life and fewer wrinkles, and few of them have come through. The steam cleaner for the bathroom gently smeared toothpaste around the sink, instead of removing it. The miracle face cream smelled like cheese and gave me pimples. The electric griddle for the kitchen had a wonky heating element, so pancakes were either as hard as hockey pucks or goopy puddles of batter.
Time after time, these miracle products have disappointed me, and yet, I keep buying them. Why? Because I want an easier life! I want time away from the kitchen, bathrooms, and carpets. If some new doodad promises to cook, clean, and massage my feet, I’m willing to spend my money. I want to roast a turkey in ten minutes, deep clean my toilet, and smooth my crow’s feet without breaking a sweat.
My own parents have fallen victim to these gimmicky inventions. My dad once spent a ridiculous amount on an “exercise-free muscle stimulation” machine. No need to work out and sweat like a chump – this gizmo promised you six-pack abs while you sat on the couch and ate cheezies! After applying water to the sensor pads, you strapped the electrodes to your stomach and the machine electrically contracted your ab muscles. Grimacing in pain, my dad tried to convince himself and us that he hadn’t just flushed money down the toilet. After a painful ten minutes, he carefully removed the device and placed it in the attic.
Even after so much disappointment, I know I’ll still buy new wonder products. Until robot butlers and at-home facelifts are cheap and safe, I’ll keep wasting my money on life-changing doohickeys. Look, here’s a new one: This thingamabob promises to balance my chequebook and laser my chin hair – I’ve got to give it a try!
