Several months ago an editor at a fancy magazine with a name that rhymes with “honey” contacted me about writing an essay. The essay was supposed to be about a something that I bought, and that I love. It was (as past columns proved) an argument for occasional extravagance, or at the very least acts of good and consciousness capitalism. The pay for the column was quite good, and the prompt seemed fine, so I set to work thinking about just what it was I loved the most out of all the things I owned. I looked around and saw my rocking chair.