When Your Loved One Buys a Juicer

Introduction

Today I tackle the unpleasant topic of what to do when a family member or close friend has purchased a juicer. This is a trying ordeal for all involved, and if not handled properly can lead to a host of negative outcomes up to and including complete estrangement. If someone close to you has already purchased a juicer, perhaps it’s not too late for this post to help. And if such a purchase hasn’t happened yet, don’t be naïve: it can happen to anyone, even you.

Why do people buy juicers?

When a person buys a juicer, it’s tempting to think a normal consumerist impulse is in play: a friend has one, it was on sale, etc. Don’t be fooled: the juicer purchase occupies an entirely different realm than, say, the harmless acquisition of a food processor or “bullet” style blender. To understand why an otherwise reasonable person would buy something that does not have, and cannot have, any utility whatsoever, you need to delve into how the brain works and how a this kind of destructive behavior can be essentially “programmed.”

On the face of it, such “programming” doesn’t look so different from regular advertising, with its slick photo or video showcasing a product to good effect, usually including an attractive person (whether a celebrity endorser, a model, or social media influencer) who creates mimetic desire in the consumer. But in reality, promotion of a juicer is far more sophisticated, and the campaign is deployed extremely precisely to capture the consumer at his or her very most vulnerable.

Remarkably, instead of seeking out a person who is emotionally isolated and has low self-esteem, juicer marketers use every modern technology available (e.g., tracking cookies or pixels, sentiment analysis within social media posts, etc.) to watch for an uplift in optimism. This is the key vulnerability the juicer industry exploits: the erroneous sense that anything is possible, even making nutritious juices in your own home. The peculiar nature of this scenario makes it very hard for loved ones to spot early warning signs. It’s not uncommon, for example, for a member of the juicer-buyer’s household to later report, “I can’t understand it … she seemed fine, she seemed happy!”

Consequences of buying a juicer

The most commonly feared consequence of a juicer purchase happens to be a myth: that it will lead to constant messes that can be extremely difficult to clean up, particularly when substances like beets, berries, pomegranate juice, and/or turmeric are involved. While this certainly can happen, it isn’t really the central problem, because the reality is, most juicer-buyers only use their juicer once. This might seem outlandish, given how expensive juicers are, but if you’ve ever actually drunk the vegetable liquid produced by this appliance, you’ll immediately understand the rationale for never using it a second time. The reality is, nothing produced by the juicer is actually palatable … it only ever seemed like a good idea. The juicer-buyer will likely intend to use the device periodically, even habitually, but is almost certain to never build up enough gumption to do so.

In fact, the most severe consequence of the juicer purchase is the deep shame that the buyer feels every time he or she sees it in the back of a cabinet. Juicers are not small—in fact, they are the very epitome of the giant, single-function kitchen appliance that home owners should avoid, other examples being the bread machine or electric can opener. (Only a toaster is arguably worth the space.) With most such encumbrances, family members may hope to see it offloaded to Goodwill or some other thrift store—but the juicer, in most cases, will not be. The reason? Cognitive dissonance. The juicer-buyer spent so much on it, he is loathe to admit it’s worthless, and the sunk cost fallacy usually crops up, meaning the family is stuck with this thing for life. And every time the buyer sees it, he is likely to feel subconscious stirrings of regret around not only of the folly of having acquired it, but of the ongoing self-delusion driving him to keep it. Whether or not these feelings bubble up to the surface, the juicer-buyer usually lacks the resolve to squarely confront the problem. Hence the festering shame … the juicer might as well be a scarlet letter.

How to help your loved one 

Of course the juicer-buyer is not only hurting herself. The myriad case histories of these purchases are simply heartbreaking, as entire families are impacted. The buyer’s spouse is bewildered as to not only the extravagant uselessness of the object, but of the purchasing decision having been made unilaterally, with no warning or consultation. Meanwhile, children lose faith in the parent who bought the juicer, in light of this inexplicably reckless behavior, and this can lead to a crisis of trust and consequent feelings of insecurity. Then there’s the clutter of the juicer itself, taking up valuable cabinet or countertop space. But while it’s understandable for family members to feel hurt, we must never forget that the buyer is the central victim. Here are some guidelines for properly handling the situation, so as to avoid further harm.

Lead with empathy

It is understandably tempting to express your incredulity at the act of purchase, without pausing to frame your inquiry carefully. It might seem perfectly reasonable to blurt out, “What part of don’t drink your calories do you not understand?!” Or you might demand, “Why would we throw away the best part of fruit—all that dietary fiber—and consume only the part that’s bad for us!?” But this kind of reaction is a big mistake, on two levels. First, since the buyer already knows deep down inside that he has made a mistake, this will only increase his latent remorse. Second, this antagonistic confrontation may drive the buyer into deeper denial, while fanning the flames of what is bound to be a difficult dialogue that could drag on for years.

Thus, it’s crucial to react with kindness and concern rather than confronting the buyer aggressively. Let her tell her story, and try to validate her position. “So … this juicer,” you might begin. “Are you envisioning making delicious and nutritive smoothies for the family?” You might be surprised to learn that your innocent assumption—that she was planning tasty shakes with fruit juice, yogurt, and nuts—was dead wrong, and that she’s planning to go straight to making vegetable drinks, even something with kale. Don’t kid yourself: juicers are not just blenders on steroids. They are specifically designed and marketed to exploit the rare but powerful delusion that vegetable-based beverages are drinkable. 

As disturbing as this is, try to be patient and supportive as your loved one explains her dedication to the family’s health, and the benefits of leafy greens high in vitamins K and A, antioxidants like quercetin and kaempferol, and omega-3 fatty acids. When she describes how much easier juicing is than making a salad, try not to immediately contradict her by pointing out how hard a juicer is to clean, especially given its oleophilic plastic bowl and dome. Remember, this buyer is already in a highly vulnerable state … if she weren’t, she wouldn’t have bought the juicer in the first place! So instead, as strange and inappropriate as this may feel, thank her for thinking of the family’s health. Remember, if you’re going to eventually pick up the pieces and move on, you need her to feel like you’re on her side.

Let the juicer-buyer fail

It can be so hard to just stand by and watch a loved one fail, but in the case of a juicer, it’s actually the best thing you can do. If the purchaser perceives a battle of wills between the two of you, his judgment is bound to be further clouded. Just watch and wait, and when that first batch of kale, cucumber, carrot, and beet concoction comes out, accept the proffered glass willingly. (Honestly, you have no choice anyway.) Promote the drink to the children enthusiastically, as though they don’t sense your skepticism. And then: pretend to enjoy it. Don’t worry, you won’t be working against yourself, for the simple reason that you will inevitably come up short in your play-acting. Not even Edward Norton or Frances McDormand could pull off a realistic impression of someone enjoying a vegetable beverage. Your vain attempt to avoid wincing, grimacing, puckering, or even gagging, and the pleasant smile you try to arrange, will be duly noted. In fact, you will be invoking the juicer-buyer’s empathy.

Extend this strategy to the clean-up. Don’t offer to wash the juicer, no matter how badly you may want to get it out of your sight so you can begin trying to put the entire wretched affair behind you. Let the sprawling apparatus just sit there on the counter, its clear dome spattered with green flecks, looking like somebody actually projectile-vomited inside it. Work around the juicer using the limited remaining counter space, and in fact let the buyer see you being a good sport about it: that is, let her sit with the consequences. If you give in and wash the juicer for her, you’re being an enabler. And if cleaning the kitchen is normally your job anyway, do a poor job with the juicer. Let the residue of beet juice, coconut milk, and/or flax seeds adhere to the sides … the juicer-buyer needs to see all this. (And if the juicer gets put away without being up to your normal standards of cleanliness, don’t fret. Bear in mind it will never be used again anyway.)

Be alert to collateral damage

If you have children, watch for any warning signs that they are coping poorly. Seeing a juicer in action, and knowing it was purchased intentionally, may cause them to doubt the foundation of reliable, competent parenting they rely so heavily upon. If necessary, have a private conversation with your kid(s), emphasizing that anyone can make a mistake like this under certain circumstances. Make this a teachable moment about the evils of targeted advertising campaigns and the ruthlessness of corporations in exploiting our vulnerabilities. Draw attention to your spouse’s overall track record, emphasizing how this behavior truly was an anomaly. And remind your kid(s) that, as hard as it may be to believe, your spouse had the best of intentions and a sincere belief this was in the family’s best interest.

How to move on

While it’s understandable to seek closure in a situation like this, consider that it should not come at the cost of the juicer-buyer’s humiliation. Put this purchase in the proper perspective: your family is only out a few hundred bucks. Don’t get me wrong, “only” does seem preposterous in the context of a totally worthless appliance, but in the big scheme of things, it’s not that big a deal. After all, your loved one didn’t take in a violent rescue dog with expensive health problems, or get scammed into investing in fraudulent cryptocurrency. Just bide your time, let the juicer molder away in a back cabinet, and reflect on all your loved one’s fine qualities. And remind yourself that all kinds of people buy juicers … you just never hear about it. Humans are not perfect. We all make mistakes.

Now, depending on various factors—the level of rapport you have with your loved one; her overall mental health; her sense of humor—it may be possible to ease the ongoing emotional burden of this purchase with a little levity. Coming across the cursed appliance, you might say, brightly, “Oh, the juicer! We should do another veggie beverage!” This is risky, of course, if you don’t get the tone exactly right. Imagine how distressing it would be if your loved one thought you were serious. It is probably safer, if you try humor at all, to be a bit more vague. For example, the next time the family suffers a major setback, you could say, “Well, at least we still have our juicer.” Again, this is a risky move, as it could be construed as sarcastic, and adding insult to injury. Remember, the purchase of this juicer will haunt your loved one for years … I would always err on the side of caution.

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Exercise & the Gumption Trap

Introduction

When it comes to exercise, I’m a disciplined person. Last quarter, I managed some kind of physical activity for 89 out of 90 days, and I rode my bike 51 times (that is, four times a week). Would it surprise you, then, to learn that I struggle to find the motivation to exercise pretty much every single day? This post documents that struggle: why it persists, and how to overcome it.

The struggle

Among those of us fortunate enough to have the spare time and energy to exercise, I don’t think there’s anyone who’d dispute its benefits. Articles on this topic pepper my inbox and browser constantly, like one of those machines that shoot tennis balls. For example, today I stumbled on this one providing eighteen reasons to work out (among them higher energy, better mood, better sleep, better sex, lower anxiety, and lowered dementia risk). I really have no philosophical issue with the practice of exercise; I’m totally on board with the program.

Why, then, is it so hard to motivate myself, in the moment—to actually get out there and ride? You might answer, “You’re just lame, Dana!” but you know I’m not alone in this. We all struggle, as is documented every year in articles about failed New Year’s Resolutions. I think the problem comes down to gumption. You can resolve, at a macro level, to follow an exercise regimen, but that’s the easy part. As I’ve mentioned before in these pages, the intellect is adept at contriving lofty resolutions, but when it comes to remembering pain and suffering, the less sophisticated lizard brain is more realistic, and exerts an awful lot of influence over the organism as a whole.

Don’t get too hung up on “lizard brain,” by the way. I realize I’m no expert on brain science, but this is a useful concept metaphorically. The point is, the rational part of our brains fully grasps the many benefits of exercise, but it has to argue with the older part of our brain, that evolved over a couple hundred thousand years and understands the need to conserve energy, in case of famine. Sloth actually produces dopamine. To overcome our laziness impulse, then, requires gumption.

Gumption and gumption traps

A basic dictionary definition of gumption is “boldness of enterprise; initiative or aggressiveness.” For more nuance, I like how Robert Pirsig describes gumption in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance:

If you’re going to repair a motorcycle, an adequate supply of gumption is the first and most important tool. If you haven’t got that you might as well gather up all the other tools and put them away, because they won’t do you any good. Gumption is the psychic gasoline that keeps the whole thing going. If you haven’t got it there’s no way the motorcycle can possibly be fixed.

Even more helpful to this exploration is Pirsig’s concept of gumption traps. Pirsig points out that gumption isn’t “a fixed commodity” doled out at birth; it is, rather, “variable, a reservoir of good spirits that can be added to or subtracted from,” so we can define gumption trap as “anything that drains our enthusiasm.” He defines two main types: 1) setbacks, which are those caused by external circumstances, and 2) hang-ups, which derive from “conditions that are primarily within yourself.”

Where ego is concerned, it’s surely easier when we can blame setbacks for not exercising. For example, you figure you’ll exercise when you get home from work, but then you end up working late. Or, you get home from work and realize you’re too tired to work out, so you decide, “I’ll do it tomorrow instead, without fail!” (This little subroutine, of course, gets you nowhere.) Or, your buddies talk you into getting a drink after work, or your spouse/other has made a nice dinner or wants to go out. Or, or, or…. It can seem like almost anything can short-circuit the mythical evening workout.

Of course, many of these setbacks could be overcome; for example, did you really need to work late, or did your deep-seated fear of pain and suffering trick you into pretending there was work to be done? (Working from home may well increase the likelihood of this kind of rationalization.) For me, most of the struggle is around the non-circumstantial cause of not riding: that is, it’s the internal hang-up.

Internal gumption traps

Pirsig, who jokes about starting “a whole new academic field, gumptionology, in which these traps are sorted, classified, structured into hierarchies and interrelated for the edification of future generations and the benefit of all mankind,” identifies a variety of internal/hang-up gumption traps. The most germane one to my study of exercise resistance is anxiety, which he describes thus:

You’re so sure you’ll do everything wrong you’re afraid to do anything at all. Often this, rather than “laziness,” is the real reason you find it hard to get started. The gumption trap of anxiety, which results from overmotivation, can lead to all kinds of errors of excessive fussiness.

“Do everything wrong,” in Pirsig’s context, refers to screwing up a motorcycle repair, since that’s his central metaphor. But the concept applies also to sport, in the sense of performing poorly. In theory, only competitive athletes would care how well they go, one day to the next, but the widespread success of Strava proves otherwise. For anyone who used to race or still dabbles, the habit of monitoring, evaluating, and documenting our performance is deeply embedded. We don’t just want to get out on the bike; we want to ride well, we want to shred some gnar’, we want to put the pussy on the chainwax! This, to continue Pirsig’s concept, is the overmotivation. Which is why, as ride time approaches, we get anxious. At least, I do.

Ageing can compound this anxiety, because as we get older our bodies become less predictable, so heading out is like tossing the dice. Overmotivation aside, anxiety accrues because when we aren’t going well, a bike ride can be a pretty miserable affair, at least in the Berkeley hills where I ride. Based on my bike’s gearing I’m forced to suffer—there’s no taking it easy. If I’m not on a good day, this isn’t a matter of mere disappointment; it’s a case of Mother Nature kicking my sorry ass. Sure, when I have good legs (or “positive sensations,” in pro racer parlance), I get all kinds of adrenaline and endorphins and I “don’t feel the pedals,” as they say. Other days, it’s a brutal slog—and alas, I never know beforehand how it’ll go. No wonder I get anxious.

Does this lead to excessive fussiness? Well, that’s part of the problem: I have to mix my energy drink, suit up, check over my bike, clean the last ride’s sweat off my sunglasses, etc. but that’s not the real issue. (Pirsig, remember, happened to use motorcycle repair as his example, which surely is a much more complicated affair.) With working out, the excess is in rationalization, in pretending you’re too busy at work, or that you’re too tired, or that you should be worried about that sore throat, etc. Etc. Etc. A friend of mine used to like to say, “Listen to your body.” To which I reply, “Ignore your body. It’s a fricking liar.”

So what is to be done?

“Ignore your body.” Sounds kind of harsh, doesn’t it, like a dickhead coach or drill sergeant? Yeah, I was playing around, but only sort of. The fact is, self-loathing can play a part in this internal gumption trap dynamic. If excess motivation leads to anxiety, which in turn leads to procrastination or rationalization, and then the ride doesn’t happen, it’s natural to feel disappointed in oneself. To some degree, this disappointment serves a valid function: it inspires us to try harder next time. It’s a hedge against shameless laziness.

On the other hand, being more compassionate with oneself can help temper that excess motivation, to reel it in a bit, and perhaps reduce the anxiety. As I prepare for an evening ride (since, notwithstanding  the photo above of me procrastinating with the cat, my workday now starts too early to ride beforehand), that inner voice starts saying, “What if you’re not recovered from the last ride? What if your legs are shit?” My more compassionate side needs to answer, “Who cares. I’m not out to set any records or beat anybody. It’s enough just to ride.” Of course, this is easier said than done, which brings me to my next strategy: scale down the difficulty.

I stumbled on this by accident. One day, not feeling great, I skipped my first big climb, South Park Drive. Instead, I descended Wildcat Canyon Road. Such a cop-out! I was actually coasting downhill at the very moment I was supposed to be flogging myself going up! What a delicious sense of relief!

Of course, I still had to get back up over those hills to go home, which could have meant going up El Toyonal and Lomas Cantadas, which isn’t only a harder climb, but is harder to write a poem about, as explained here. Rider’s block and writer’s block at the same time! But instead, from El Toyonal I took a little bail-out road (part dirt) to get back to Wildcat, and thus a new route was born. It follows the dotted line labeled “cutover” below. Click the image. (Click ‘em all.)

Even though on most days I could do a much harder ride than this, I almost never do. If I finish my ride wishing it’d been longer, I’ll be that much more motivated the next time. This is how I “act my age” while still being an active guy. (And no, self-compassion will not make you a wuss.)

If you don’t feel like taking my word for it, here are some schematics showing how much easier my current standard route is from the route I did for like fifteen years, which I called the “Hill Climb Extravaganza,” aka HCE:

The HCE entails more than 4,000 feet of vertical gain in just under 25 miles. The modern ride climbs only 2,100 feet, in just under 21 miles—it’s basically only half as hilly.

But wait, there’s more. It’s not enough just to cut myself some slack due to age; since my tired days are really slow and awful, I have to make sure they don’t leave a bad taste in my mouth. So I also cut myself a deal: going into every ride, I promise myself that if I’m really riding badly, I’ll cut it short, shamelessly and unapologetically, even if that means turning around abruptly and retracing my route. After all, any ride is better than none.

Does this work? I wish I could say my scale-it-back protocol completely wipes out the gumption trap and the daily dread of the workout—but it doesn’t. For some reason, even though my rides are almost always fun, and I’m always glad I did them, I still routinely struggle with motivation beforehand. However, I’m almost never snared in the gumption trap—my system gets me over the hump, almost every time. And once I’m out there on the road or trail, if I’m feeling good, I give myself a jolly good thrashing. You don’t need a long ride to get a killer workout, after all … and prevailing in this daily struggle is what keeps me from becoming a mere former athlete.

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