I just bought the books I'll need for my second year of Chinese class, which starts in a little less than a month. There's something so exciting about buying new school books. They are all shiny and crisp and have that new book smell. At the beginning of the semester, you are full of optimism about how interesting your classes will be. You have earnest plans to stay ahead on your homework and do extra credit work. Your textbooks are yet unscathed by the weeks of being toted around with everything else in your backpack and still unmarked by the food and beverages you will consume as you slog through your assignments. You are blissfully unaware of how boring they may turn out to be, how many missed social opportunities they will come to represent, how much you will hate the sight of them in just a couple of months. Right now, they are inspiring. You can hold them in your hands and measure the weight of the knowledge they contain, the knowledge that will be yours by mid-December. Theoretically, that is.
Continuing on the theme of useless things . . .
What is it that comes over people at conferences, conventions, etc. that compels them to collect junk? From whence the sudden urge for people who would normally buy all their bath linens in the finest Egyptian cotton at hushed department stores to pounce upon cheap hand-towels emblazoned with the logo of a fitness equipment company, like seagulls on a crust of bread? Those four magical letters, "F-R-E-E," seem to cause a sort of temporary insanity that leads to the hoarding of ball-point pens, tote bags, refrigerator magnets, and various objects made of that squishy Nerf Ball-like substance.
I recently returned from a week in Nashville, TN, where I was attending the General Assembly of YMCAs. I and the other staff members from the YMCA Archives were there to present a historical exhibit based on material in the archives. The General Assembly is held only once every five years, so it's a huge event with over 5,000 attendees from YMCAs around the country. Naturally, there was a huge exhibit hall with hundreds of vendors. The historical exhibit from the archives was set up in a large area in the back of this hall, and as I stood near the entrance, poised to usher people in for a fabulously interesting and educational experience, I was in a prime position to observe the vultures circling the premises, honing in on their prey.
The symptoms of exhibit hall fever are many and varied, but the disease seems to run a similar course in many people. Upon first entering the exhibit hall, people are relaxed and casual, betraying none of the avarice that lurks below the surface. While some will immediately start working their way through the hall in a systematic fashion, chronic sufferers will usually take a quick tour of the hall to scope out the general layout. They'll grab a few small items here and there -- a pen or two, perhaps a plastic bag in which to stash the first wave of loot. Meanwhile, they are noting which exhibitors have the prize giveaways that are not out on the table for easy pickings, but which require you to spend some time talking to the vendor, testing the product, etc. They are also keeping an eye on the other exhibit hall visitors and asking anyone spotted carrying something interesting where they got it.
Timing can be key -- many of the choicest giveaways have limited supplies. Having finally located the booth where they are giving away cowboy hats if you try out each weight machine on display, you may discover (hopefully before you've worked up a sweat and wasted valuable give-away collecting time on an impromptu work-out) you are too late for the coveted prize. You are left to stare impotently and enviously at the other people in the exhibit hall proudly sporting their cowboy hats as they they casually browse through the other booths. Nevermind the fact you can't think of a single time or place you'd actually wear said cowboy hat. You feel distinctly deprived.
Despite these set-backs, most people emerge from the fray with plenty of loot. You compare notes with your colleagues, going through your bag of stuff and exclaiming over the latest in branded plastic novelties. You make plans to go back tomorrow for the ones you missed, determined not to be outdone by any of your co-workers.
The fever rages on until you get home, or, if you have travelled by plane to get to the conference, when you are packing for the flight home. It is then you realize you've accumulated a mass stuff you will now have to put somewhere. Even after you go through the pile and cull out the brochures and catalogs which vendors insisted you take, and maybe a couple of the cheaper pens, you are left with at least a cubic foot or so of crap, the vast majority of which you don't need and, truth be told, don't even really want. You no longer remember why it was urgent that you acquire that paperweight, or why you spent ten minutes with this guy discussing pool-cleaning equipment in exchange for a Mark Spitz bobble-head. The fever has run its course, and you find yourself sheepishly holding a bag of plastic heading straight for the nearest landfill or leaving it in your hotel room as an offering to the housekeeping staff in hopes it will somehow make up for your skimpy tips.
Alas, my wisdom did not provide much personal immunity from this virus. But of course, with me, it's only the best. I managed to arrive home with 3 pens (one has a laser pointer built in!), 4 towels (they're great for the gym), a combination tape measure/level (always handy), and a couple of tote bags (good for camping and . . . .stuff).
By now you are probably nodding your head ruefully. You have probably observed that this affliction is rampant not only at conferences, but seemingly in any large room featuring rows of tables, pipe-and-drape dividers, and foam core displays. By the way, the State Fair starts in two weeks. On your mark, get set . . .