For you fans of Aldous Huxley – and I think you know who you
are – behold what Jessica Pressler writes in the May 21 edition of the New York
Magazine, in a feature on Silicon Valley companies that want to do your laundry
for you:
We are living in a time of Great Change, and also a time of
Not-So-Great Change. The tidal wave of innovation that has swept out from
Silicon Valley, transforming the way we communicate, read, shop, and travel,
has carried along with it an epic shit-ton of digital flotsam . . . the
brightest mind of a generation, the high test-scorers and mathematically
inclined, have taken the knowledge acquired at our most august institutions and
applied themselves to solving increasingly minor First-World problems.
I’ve written about a few of them: Vests you can wear that
give you icky visceral feelings when you read a book. The ability to add sounds
and background music to your ebook. The fact that ebooks even exist (though
it’s likely I’ll publish one of me own in the next several months).
Pressler paints a fascinating story of young, tech-oriented
people looking for ways to make a buck. That I can respect. But none of them appear
to want to get their hands dirty. In this “new economy,” everyone is in
management. You’ll notice, ever they got venture capital, these folks who came
up with the company called Washio bout everything under the sun – a nice
office, assistants, etc., -- with which to run a laundry business; everything
but, you know, washing machines:
All of a sudden, Washio had $1.3 million – enough to afford
a nice office in Santa Monica, spitting distance from shaving-industry
disrupter Dollar Shave Club, dating-site disrupter Tinder, and
Zuckerberg-disrupter Snapchat, which whom it started a soccer league. Washio
did some hiring: engineers, an assistant for Metzner and drivers.
And it gets to feeling that it’s doing Good for society, you
know, like this:
Washio does its part to sustain this
delusion by pretending not to be a job. Every month, it throws a party for the
ninjas, an open bar or a barbecue or bowling. “So they feel part of a
community,” Metzner says.
Like the other enlightened start-ups
it has modeled itself on, Washio would like to think of itself as making the
world a better place, not just making a naked grab for market share. To that
end, once a month the company brings clothing collected from customers by
ninjas to a clothing drive organized by a nonprofit called Laundry Love.
“It’s really good,” says Nadler as we
are driving back from a visit to the vast building where Washio gets its
laundry done, largely by immigrants who are not invited to the open bars or
barbecues. “It’s a bonding event for Washio-as-culture,” he goes on. “It’s
good press. And it’s useful because it makes it easier for our customers. You
know, because people always have things they want to donate to Goodwill, but
then you have to go, and you have to organize it, and you have this bag sitting
around forever—” He catches himself and laughs. “Actually, it’s not really that
big a deal.”
It’s all very cute, I think. I wish them well. And we’ll
continue doing our laundry the old-fashioned way: At home.
Pressler rightly calls what’s going on in what she describes
as the cutthroat laundry-in-an-app business as the hedonistic treadmill: Why do
something, some menial task, when you can pay someone else to do it? Well,
aside from the fact that you can probably do it yourself cheaper, I mean, unless
your time spent laundry is time you’d spend otherwise SAVING THE UNIVERSE by
dressing up as a superhero to collect someone else’s laundry (read Pressler’s
piece; it’s all there) or creating the NEXT BIG THING that is going to make you
rich without getting your hands dirty – leave that to the immigrants who aren’t
invited to your company’s feel-good events.
This is the $15 minimum wage argument all over again.
Nobody’s time is worth what they think it is. While I’m at work, my time is
worth what the company will pay me for. When I’m at home, my time is worth what
I’ll pay for it, and if the pay I get for a half hour every night after the
kids go to bed is to spend that half hour washing dishes, so be it. Unless
there’s a company out there ready to swoop in to my neighborhood with a truck
ready to haul my dishes to a warehouse full of immigrants who’ll wash it, sight
unseen, well then, I’m all for it.
But of course I'm not. Sometimes my time is worth what I get paid as a technical writer. Sometimes it's worth nothing, as I'm doing chores at home, including washing those pesky dishes (I'm not allowed near the clothes washer).
The notion that our time, every precious second of it, is worth a set value in cold dollars is ludicrous. It's part of the overbusying of America. I only rent 40 hours a week to my job, and that's enough. What time I have outside of it is mine to spend as I will.
And it's not that I'm idling along. Between volunteering with the Boy Scouts of America and maintaining a house, I'm teaching an English class part-time and also editing a novel. I don't look at any of that time as worth a certain amount of money, nor do I look at any of the labor I do off the clock as a waste of my time because I'm not getting paid for it. That's silly.
So these little services that people think are valuable, well, they're valuable to some. But not to all, thank heaven, because there ought to be a few of us on the planet who know how to get our hands dirty.
See, there’s curbside recycling available in my town. And we
recycle a lot. But we don’t pay the $5 a month for the service because once as
month, as I’m driving to the credit union or Home Depot or something on another
errand, I can drop the recyclables off at the city’s bins for free. I’m not so
pretentious to think that my time is so valuable I have to pay someone else to
come collect my plastic bottles and tin cans. I’m paying myself nothing to have
a break from the time my time has value added, and that’s good enough for me.