The Economics of McDonalds

Written on the back of a placemat from Golden Greek Restaurant in Webster, MA.

I love to shop.

I love the experience of losing hours amongst rows of clothes, books, horse equipment–whatever my particular fancy at the moment–dreaming about the perfect outfit, books I wish to write, or how my barn will look some day.

Cue dreamy Cinderella “Some day my Prince Will Come” theme music.

The enemy aforementioned retail therapy: the Salesperson. The types that will pester you about cell phones, manicure kits, insta elbow grease.

Instrumental music fades into annoying infomercials…….ONLY 9.99 !!!(plus40dollarsshippingandhandling).

The worst is those that offer free products. Talking to one of them sets me off on a guilt trip larger than my grandmother’s “Will I live to see my great-grandchildren?”

Bon Voyage.

I feel like if I don’t buy something, I’m somehow stealing the “free” sample, and robbing them of their valuable time, energy, and product commission. Or, still worse, I fear I’ll end up like Juliette Lewis’s character in The Other Sister– running through the mall distraught because counter make up artist only made up half her face. It’s no surprise that my favorite stores are the helpful,but not pushy independently owned shops where customer satisfaction is the bottom line, not meeting quarterly objectives.

I enjoy going to the Post Office for that reason. It is one of the only things left from our more simpler beginnings. When I was five years old, the mail–and the post office– were magical places. It motivated my active imagination to discover that something I wrote here could arrive somehow–I was unclear as to exactly how-anywhere around the world. To me at the ripe old age of 23 (still on the good side of 25), there is something romantic about writing and sending a letter. There is something more personal in the time it takes to write out and post a letter–rather than just clicking “Send”in an e-mail program. I still get the same butterflies of excitement when I open my mail box that I did when I was five, even though bills outnumber romantic love letters these days.

Today, when it came time to mail my graduate school applications, I chose to sojurn to the local Post Office for the precise postage, rather than haphazardly estimating the weight and number of stamps necessary.

The local post office was an air conditioned haven from the mugginess of a late-July heat wave. I handed the proudly handed the post master my envelopes.

“Would you like this Priority mail?”

“No. First class is fine,” I replied, smiling.

“Insurance?”

“No.”

“Tracking Number?”

“No.”

“Delivery Confirmation?”

“No.”

“Signature Confirmation?”

“No. I think good ol’ first class will do it for me,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Do you need anything else today? Stamps? Framed Collectible Stamps? a Passport?”

In answer, I swiped my card and punched in my pin number.

“Do you need cash back?”

Habitat for Humanity has its “economics of Jesus”; I’m calling this the “economics of McDonalds.” It was the same type of at the register sale McDonalds introduced with its “Would you like fries with that?” mantra. I half expected her to ask me if I wanted to “Super Size” my mail.

Trust me, I fully understand we are in a recession–but, in my honest, humble opinion, companies should be courting their customers, not aggravating them with high-pressure sales tactics. Many moan about the death of chivalry, I’m mourning the death of customer care.

What’s next? the Department of Motor Vehicles selling cars?