A postcard from the construction site

The problem with price

I bought an ergonomic mouse the other day. The recent months of late night (re)editing of editorial layouts and photos have caught up. 

Initially, I wanted the cheapest possible mouse I could find because:

1. I didn’t know if I would like it;

2. I didn’t know if I would use it (this answered itself in the days that followed after the pain in my right wrist intensified, to which I experimented with using my standard mouse on its side, running the mouse on a book that has been propped upright);

3. I didn’t know if it was going to be worth the wait (disclaimer, it’s only been a week since I placed the order. It’s being shipped from Shenzhen, China. Knowing that the time will pass anyway regardless if I bought the mouse or not, I am a patient person who wants my wrist issue solved and knows it will be worth the investment and time [spent waiting] in the long run).

(Also as an aside, why aren’t all mice designed like an ergonomic one in the first place?)

Contrary to my initial reservations, I didn’t end up buying the cheapest ergonomic mouse available. Knowing that I would be going back to it again and again, I didn’t want a clickety-clack plasticky mouse that would pierce the silence of co-working spaces and might stop working a few months in. Instead, I read the reviews of the skin-like touch of a (wait for it) mini mouse as well as its precision and responsiveness. 

I have my old consumption habits as daily reminders of choosing cheaper (price) over value: the yellowing stack of dirt cheap paperbacks from a warehouse sale, never once opened; the pair of denim shorts from a fast fashion brand that sags and stretches ever more after every wash; the discoloured chrome-plated necklaces from a high street store. 

In contrast, selected purchases that I’m able to look at without remorse include the pebble-laminated cover of an independent wine magazine, mindfully purchased despite initial inner resistance (its cover price perhaps equivalent to three stacks worth of books from a warehouse book sale); the cross sections of large colourful seeds that hang from a necklace, purchased from a small artisan stall in Cartagena, now strung up on the cork-board; the tight weaves of the pandanus mat, woven by a lady named Abok, whose handiwork I admire every time I’m in extended child’s pose. 

Now, the questions I ask myself before every purchase is:

1. Am I buying it just because it’s “cheap”?;

2. If this was x4 the price, would I still buy it?;

3. Will it add value (by way of convenience, education, entertainment or connection) to my life?

What was something you thought was too “expensive” at the time of purchase, but now value it more than ever?

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This week, I’m

working on: ‘Plates, Vol.4: Seeds’

reading/listening/watching: N/A (Being unable to answer this simple question is perhaps a sign that I’m too immersed in the above and need to diversify.)

Plates is an independent biannual magazine that uses food as a conversation starter. Intentional and sporadic visual updates on Instagram Stories @platesmagazine @deemaytan. If you enjoyed reading this postcard, feel free to forward it to a friend; leave a comment; or, if you’ve been meaning to, but haven’t quite gotten around to it, grab a plate and introduce yourself here. Thanks for reading. See you next week.