'Luxury' finds itself as overused and abused as the word 'Couture' these days. As often as companies claim to be redefining luxury, it was once defined purely by rarity. Luxurious foods and fabrics hailed from exotic faraway lands, and necessitated a fortune in shipping fees to prove it. But what could be called rare now, in a global economy in which anything and everything can be flown in overnight from any corner of the world?
As if to prove a point, our culture seems determined to strip all areas of life of their precious veneer, inventing ever new ways to squander time—and now, privacy. No moment shall go unchronicled in 140-character snippets, no meal uncaptured by the Instagram lens. Forget Big Brother; our followers are watching us, and we're all too happy to oblige.
Is it my natural reclusive tendency, then, or my increasing desire for a life larger than byte-sized quips and faux filters, that makes me seek shelter from the social media storm? Both in my travels and day-to-day life, I slip under the radar, refusing to "check in" as a continuous act of rebelliousness. I have paid witness to the most beautiful food presentation, crying out to be captured for posterity, though I always respectfully refuse. This moment, this thought, this relationship, I must insist, is only for myself. Imported luxuries may come and go, but it is the rarity of pure privacy that makes me crave it, and it was right here all along.
