Elon Musk, the Tesla billionaire, recently bought Twitter for $44 billion. Since the beginning of the year, Musk began purchasing shares of the publicly-owned social network, Monopoly-style, before announcing he would buy the company outright and privatize it. By May, the deal was put on hold. By summer, Musk hinted that he might abandon the deal to buy Twitter altogether. But in October, Musk finished the deal: $44 billion for the purchase of the platform.
Folks are leaving Twitter in droves, and many who remain are mercilessly trolling Musk with fake accounts impersonating him.
The jibes have gotten worse since he laid off 3,700 employees, then sheepishly had to walk back the layoffs and ask (beg) some of the employees to come back. Late night comedians are reveling in the spectacle. The Schadenfreude is palpable.
One can’t help but wonder if Elon is having a severe case of buyer’s remorse.
There’s not much about Elon Musk that I can relate to personally, but this week, I’m watching with great interest as he navigates acting like he meant to buy Twitter — even though it seems perfectly clear he would wash his hands of the whole deal and sell it off in a second.
This, I can relate to. $44 billion dollars? That I cannot relate to. But buyer’s remorse? Yes. I’ve been there.
It’s made me think about the times I’ve purchased some shiny new thing, thinking it was somehow going to transform my life. Here’s a partial list of purchases I’ve regretted almost immediately:
Sewing machine. I was a young mother. I imagined calmly stitching away at the dining room table while my children played idyllically at my feet. At one point, I bought yards and yards of expensive fabric to sew a Harry Potter Halloween costume for my son. What was I thinking? My 7th grade knowledge of sewing got me practically nowhere. Halloween came and went. We purchased a cape and wand from a store instead. The fabric, half cut out with pattern pieces pinned to it, was relegated to the depths of a closet. The sewing machine never saw daylight again.
Flute. I really thought I was going to take lessons. It had been a childhood dream of mine. I never asked myself when exactly I was going to go to lessons and practice while raising four active children. It never happened.
That Boho-style dress that I thought I’d look so cute in, until I put it on. I was wrong. Someone would look cute in a dress like that, but it wasn’t me.
Juicer: Hoping to get healthy, I picked up this juicer by way of a Craigslist purchase. The seller agreed to meet me during the day, in a busy McDonald’s parking lot; he was a short bodybuilder-type wearing a t-shirt with “Socialist” emblazoned across his chest. I handed over 20 bucks, assembled the gadget at home, and juiced every carrot, apple, and celery stalk in sight for a few weeks. The machine was hard to clean, and the sweet juices gave me head rushes. The novelty wore off quickly. Into the closet it went, next to the sewing machine and the Boho dress.
Anything from the dollar store. Once I’m in a dollar store, I fall prey quickly to, ‘Everything’s so cheap!’ But besides inexpensive, the items are also cheap: easily broken, and made of plastic that will sit in a landfill much longer than I will ever use it.
Lots of knitting supplies. I don’t exactly regret this, because I enjoyed knitting, and might enjoy it again in the future. But right now, it’s something I don’t have a lot of time for. Also, yarn seems to multiply like rabbits.
Red Dishes: I found these on clearance at a big-box store that was going out of business. I thought they were so pretty! One of them chipped almost immediately. More chips and cracks on bowls and mugs followed in short order. These were bad purchases. No way around it. I was dazzled by the price, underwhelmed by the quality.
Pausing before making a purchase, to ask myself if I really need it, helps me make better choices. I’m still learning. I will continue to trip and stumble along my path to minimalism. (Thank goodness I don’t have $44 billion to have Elon Musk-size buyer’s remorse—amIright?) I remind myself of the sinking regret that’s felt after spending money on something that will end up in the back of the closet. I don’t want to feel that again. I hope the richest man in the world has a big enough closet for what he’s feeling right now.
Label maker: This was an Amazon purchase, a bit of an impulse buy. I held it in my hands for the first time and thought I felt a twinge of buyer’s remorse … but realized it was just the quiver of pure, unadulterated joy. My label maker is awesome. No regrets.
