It’s all about you

An exclusive excerpt.

Let’s face it, debt never was our friend, even though it pretended to be (No money down! Don’t pay ’til spring!). We wanted to believe it, and did, to the tune of $1.1 trillion (our national household debt). In 1980, the average Canadian was $5,470 in the hole, including mortgage debt. By 2007, that number had swelled by more than six times to $34,523. During this time, our perception of debt was transformed: once a bogeyman to be avoided at every turn, it’s now more like a member of the family, albeit a nagging one, who simply needs to be managed. Most often, this explosion of personal debt is chalked up to years of easy access to capital and low borrowing rates—and that certainly played a major role. But how do we account for our own increasing willingness to submerge ourselves in liabilities? Over the past quarter-century, we somehow warmed to the idea that the travesty of not living the life we imagined far outweighs the consequences of borrowing more than we can reasonably hope to repay. What changed?

The truth is, debt is only a symptom of a much more fundamental shift. Turn on any television set, read any magazine or newspaper, or venture online for even five minutes and you’ll begin to notice the language of entitlement. Everywhere we turn, it seems someone is confirming our inherent worthiness to us. Dell Computers, for instance, says in its “Purely You” campaign: “We don’t make technology for just anyone.We make it for only one. You.” Burger King tells us to “Have it your way.” Ford fawns, “Everything we do is driven by you.” Air Canada offers you the “Freedom to fly your own way.” AT&T transmits “Your true voice.” YouTube advocates that you “Broadcast Yourself.” Microsoft asks, “Where do you want to go today?” Pier 1 Imports reminds you, “It’s Your Thing.” TimeWarner Cable promises to unleash “The Power of You.” The Home Depot cheers you on with, “You can do it. We can help.” And Alpo, looking out for your beloved four-legged friends, asks, “Doesn’t your dog deserve Alpo?” The desired response to these slogans is always a variation on the same theme: Yes, I am. Yes, I can. Yes, I do. Yes, my dog does, too.

This is the “You Sell,” a pitch that has evolved over time to become the dominant theme in consumer culture. In its simplest terms, the You Sell is the message that you are an inherent VIP. Nobody else can tell you what to think or do. You deserve the best. You’re entitled to nothing less. You are unique—an original—and as such, each and every choice you make should be a reflection, an amplification, of your essential, irreplaceable self.

Also at Macleans.ca: Dude, where’s my job?

The You Sell is in ads for TV services that allow you to watch your shows on demand—“where you want, when you want.” It’s in commercials for retailers like Best Buy that invite you to “Get yours.” It’s in Nescafé ads that say, “It’s all about you,” and billboards for Scotiabank that tell you, “You’re richer than you think”—when the truth is, you’re probably not.

Where marketers used to primarily sell products or brand values, they’re now selling You—an idealized, self-actualized version of yourself—back to you. Whether the conduit is clothing, computers, credit cards, hotel rooms, software or furniture, when it comes to advertising, You are the real goods. In fact, You have become the only real product anyone is pushing.

Of course, advertising has always promised us a better life through stuff. But listen for it, and you’ll notice the pitch has changed. The shift is subtle, but powerful. Effective advertising has always involved strategic feats of deception. But the You Sell contains a different sort of lie, one that is significantly harder to spot since the wisdom of it seems to spring forth from your own head.

Lifestyle advertising used to be about the idea that if you buy a particular product, you will, by extension, acquire an array of desirable qualities associated with that product—glamour, intelligence, physical attractiveness, wit, personal strength. Think of beer commercials: with a pint of Labatt Blue, you too could join a log-cabin party in the Canadian Rockies populated by horny bikini-clad coeds. This is aspirational modelling—the kind you’d see in cigarette ads, where the men are manly and the women are liberated and the only thing ostensibly separating you from them is a lighter. Aspirational ads ask, “Wouldn’t you like to be a Pepper, too?”

The You Sell turns this model on its head—instead of being aspirational, it is affirmational. The message is always deferential. It says: You are already perfect, just as you are. You know it; the advertisers know it. Now, it’s just a matter of enhancing your inherent specialness and broadcasting it to the world via a kick-ass array of products.