Don’t call me “Consumer”

I have a confession to make: I HATE brands. There, I said it.

For someone who works in public relations, this may sound disingenuous, but hear me out. First, a little background: I started off as a public affairs practitioner in Washington D.C., so my work was really very far away from any brand names. I worked for trade and industry associations, embassies and foreign education institutions and I really enjoyed it. Then, I moved to San Francisco and, drum roll, the brands came tumbling my way. This is a long-winded way of saying, I didn’t really sign up for it from the very beginning, it sort of happened along the way.

Of course, all brands are not equal. Some, I have very warm feelings for, either because they remind me of happy, carefree times (Nutella, mmm…) or because I use them every day and they have demonstrated value (Zara, Puma, Trader Joe’s, etc). They also happen to be brands that advertise little, if at all. 

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Most brands I’m indifferent to, as long as they leave me alone and don’t badger me with advertising. The list here is so long, I won’t even attempt to commit it to the pixels. And then there are the brands that I deeply, passionately despise. The brands that assault me with their annoying and mostly uninspired commercials and promotions at every turn, analog or digital. The great mass of unwashed brands that forced me to pull the plug on cable television, just so I could avoid exposing my few remaining brain cells to their incessant attacks.

Forced to watch my favorite shows online with a day of delay (first YouTube and now Hulu), I took comfort in the lack of commercials. That was in the beginning. Now, for every quarter of The Daily Show, I am forced to watch the same (THE SAME!) idiotic commercial, sometimes twice in a row.

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 I also take issue with being called “a consumer.” Being the kind of person who removes visible tags from sweaters, I get very uncomfortable when I know that certain brands define me not by my social attributes (yuppie, San Franciscan, immigrant), or even my animal attributes (bipedal, mammalian) – which I’d be fine with – honest! – but by my ability to purchase their merchandise. This “c” word that I hear so often in brainstorms at work is really hitting a nerve, possibly because I feel that too many salespeople, brands and marketers are trying to part me from my hard-earned money, in return for stuff that I will only use once, if ever, derive no satisfaction from, and then pay more money to organize it, store it or get rid of it.

Like on a psychotherapists’ couch, we’re slowly peeling the onion of my frustrations here.  Last layer: the thing I treasure most these days is not, as I may have led you to think, my money or my self-esteem, but, really, my time. I can deal with the guilt of an unnecessary purchase. I cannot deal with the guilt of spending hours shopping instead of Skype-ing with my mother. I can deal with a cramped closet. I can’t deal with not having enough vacation to fly back home. The little free time I have is mostly spent with loved ones or in the pursuit of self-betterment. So I don’t appreciate it when marketers call me, email me or barrage me with ads. Especially if they’re peddling a product I don’t care about. Hear me, Newcastle Brown Ale?