According to the evening news, I might be the only person in America who doesn’t treat Black Friday like a sacred national holiday. No vigils in parking lots. No sprinting through sliding doors. No combat-diving for discounted air fryers.
By the time the sales banners go up, the shopping portion of my program is already closed. Black Friday for me looks like soft music, scissors, tape, gift wrap, and addressing Christmas cards like I’ve got sense.
But the rest of the country?
Baby… chaos wrapped in holiday spirit.
I watched the news in stunned disbelief as crowds surged through store entrances like a stampede on the Serengeti. Flat-screen TVs held high. Elmos in arm. Retail gladiators of capitalism battling for doorbuster glory. I refuse to call it “shopping.” It was a sporting event with door greeters as referees.
We should be grateful no one has to be memorialized under a display shelf at Best Buy, still clutching a crumpled sale flyer like a bargain flag.
Let’s tell the truth: shopping isn’t a hobby in America, it’s the unofficial religion.
The malls are the sanctuaries.
The sales are the sacraments.
And Black Friday? The highest holy day on the retail calendar.
Some of y’all camp out for sales the way old church mothers used to camp out for revival seats.
And I can practically hear the confessional now:
Bless me Amazon, for I have sinned. It’s been 24 hours since my last purchase…
I know the theory — retailers go “into the black,” profits rise, angels sing, stock markets rejoice. But if one day determines the entire health of a business year, we might not be running a sale… we might be running a setup.
Because nothing says smart financial strategy like:
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Slashing prices so low you lose money to make money
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Panicking the public into economic Hunger Games behavior
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And gambling your annual profits on 12 hours of consumer hysteria
It feels less like a business model and more like emotional economics:
If the shelves aren’t empty → the world is ending → everyone sell your stock and scream into the void.
What if the frenzy was spread out over a couple weeks?
Less adrenaline. Same revenue. Fewer elbows to the ribs over a toaster.
Or, wild thought: what if retail fiscal years didn’t start in January?
Imagine profits being measured from October instead. Three extra months to breathe. Three extra months to recover. Three extra months for retailers to act like their livelihoods don’t depend on a 3 a.m. door-buster stampede.
Logical? Yes.
Likely? Mm-mm.
Because the rush is the point now. We’re addicted to the spectacle.
People don’t just want a discount.
They want the conquest.
The bragging rights.
The receipt that says: I survived the madness and saved $40.
Me? I’ll pass the battlefield.
Call me when the aisles have been resettled, the adrenaline has cleared, and the seasonal desperation fog has lifted. I’ll be home. Wrapping gifts. Drinking something warm. Unbothered and undefeated.
Love you, but not enough to wrestle somebody for a toaster.
— Until next time, stay sane, stay soulful, and stay mailed in advance.
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