I’ve never browsed on a street full of closed shops before.

It wasn’t my intention when I drove my friend over to Water Street Market between classes on the dreary Tuesday of February 21st. Before we went, my friend was worried that they would have to stop back at their dorm because they didn’t have their wallet with them. I told them it wasn’t a big deal and that we would simply go browse—and that, worse case, I would pay and they could venmo me back. There was something really sweet about this simple message, and the unspoken, “I enjoy your company and want to spend time with you” did not go unheard. 

Upon our arrival, the usually bustling shopping center was uncharacteristically quiet. I’m not sure why I thought the local stores would be open at 11 AM on a Tuesday, but we were already there and decided to explore anyway. 

Our first stop was the Antique Barn, which I have visited many times before. I think of the gaudy earrings I have purchased there in the past and wonder if they have any additions to their collection of eclectic salt and pepper shakers. Are the overpriced jackets and random family photographs still there? Although we could not venture inside, they had a few overflowing bins marked, “FREE”. The conversation flitted around as we leafed through books and vinyls that had seen better days. There was a set of white and green drinking vessels marked as “Irish Coffee Cups” in worn elegant scrawl, a set of mismatched figurines of children singing or holding shoes or simply sitting there, and a stuffed animal of Alvin the chipmunk with the teeth nearly on his chin rather than on the thin black thread representing his smile. In my search, I found three books that piqued my interest: The House on Mango Street, a sequel in the Bunnicula series, and a basic Betty Crocker Cookbook. Among our repartee, I found myself clicking my alveolar ridge and chiding, “If they’re still here when we come back, it was meant to be” in a playfully maternal tone. We laughed and continued our journey empty-handed. Sure enough, they were still there when we passed the Antique Barn on the way back to the car. 

Although we were out in public, our excursion felt very intimate and private. On the other hand, when I was physically alone in my room I felt as though my every move were being watched and monitored. 

When I looked up “Thirftbooks” on Wednesday, February 22nd around 6:10 PM, I was greeted with a “Hi Sky!” under my Account tab and immediately brought to my online shopping cart labeled “Cart subtotal (0 items): $0.00 (USD)” along with a “Based on your recent browsing” recommendation subsection. After only a few seconds, my “Honey” browser extension flashed a popup telling me it had found two coupons to apply to this site—complete with animated confetti and a cheerful anprophomorphic dancing gold coin. After testing both coupons, neither worked. Even with adblock downloaded on my laptop, I was met with a bombarding of colorful advertisements vying for my attention: “You have 1 FREE BOOK reward available! Add any valid item under $5 to redeem. Continue shopping. Order any Collectible item and earn Double Rewards on each Collectible item purchased. Offer details.” “Your shopping cart is currently empty. Fill it up with some of out Best Sellers!” Overall, it was a very overstimulating experience, even on a site I love and swear by.

During this experiment, I wasn’t looking for anything specific. I did not have an immediate purpose and felt as though I had nothing to look for, and therefore my experience felt pointless and like a waste of time. I felt languid, bored, and even frustrated. No, I don’t need another copy of a book I previously bought off of the site—I already bought it! That means that I have it! Stop advertising it to me! I did find it interesting to look back at my previous orders, listed out by date with the number of items, price, and order number. It was a brief, but enjoyable, spark of memory. My most recent order included three items: The Hare with Amber Eyes, Frankenstein, and Crying in H Mart, which I found to be amusing and ironic. I took a moment to reflect on the novels I read for my Deaf Culture class last spring, the Ocean Vuong books I bought for myself as a special treat, the picture book I got for a project, the complete collection of Shakespeare’s Sonnets, and the Martin Yan cookbooks I bought my dad for his birthday after he got a wok during quarantine. The site tells me I placed this last order on 11/27/2020 at 13:20:36. Down to the millisecond. Seeing that I got it in November, maybe the cookbook was actually a gift for the holidays. I see that “The Yan Can Cookbook” was shipped out on 11/27/2020, while the “Martin Yan Quick and Easy” and “Shakespeare’s Sonnets” were sent out together on 11/28/2020. This is information that I did not ask for and did not need, and yet it was kind of fun to look through. 

I do think both scrolling and browsing have their place, although in terms of enjoyment I tend to have an affinity for the quick banter and playful energy of browsing. Scrolling can be more beneficial in terms of instant gratification and efficiency, but I think we have gotten too uncomfortable with being bored. Something that really stuck with me from my browsing experiment was the sense of purposelessness. In a society that expects us to work ourselves to death, it felt freeing to just exist and be unproductive for a little while. One of my suitemates has a quote that she likes to say that I think perfectly encapsulates my experience with browsing in beautifully simplistic terms: “We live to lollygag another day.” We do, indeed.