At Least They're Committed

Demographic versus psychographic. An intriguing comparison.

I was thinking about that as the wool dryer balls stared up at me from the drum, once again unable to sneak away undetected from their cruelly imposed, trap o’ tumult. I often find them mixed into the sheets in attempt to sneak free and roll away and it pains me to have to toss them back. I honestly feel rather bad for them even though they are inanimate objects, thus I quickly cover them with the damp laundry.

Last load underway, 50 minutes should do it. I’ve been playing catchup since early day meetings — nearly four hours of them to be nearly precise. They’re always quite interesting and I am excited about the upcoming developments, but four hours is still a really, really, really, really long time. Especially since I have the attention span of a 12-year-old.

Almost makes me empathize with people I’ve worked with, old assholes with reputations for dozing off in meetings, waddles draped to one side over stiff collars, heads lolling to the side. Actually, not as old as you would think. These people were slightly older to somewhat-younger than me. So, no, come to think of it I don’t empathize with them at all.

They were just boring and easily bored, I suppose. I relish playing far too much to fall into such a category.

That’s where demographic versus psychographic applies. In one of today’s meetings, we reviewed last week’s conference and two of our unofficial team members said they had walked around asking questions about hosting; what different companies and venders offered and why they, as newbie podcasters, should consider enlisting their services.

Woe, some companies have a penchant for appealing to an only younger demographic and couldn’t be bothered to so much as cast a sideways glance toward these ladies. Pity. And that’s when the word ‘psychographic’ arose. As in, some of us middle-aged-to-getting-up-there-in-years folks are what would be considered a youthful psychographic.

Pulling a woolen ball from the dryer, I squish it in my hands. Soft, yet scratchy. Like me. They’re gray, though, and although I am a Gray, I consider myself rather colorful in a childlike way. I sometimes stop and marvel that I’ve been on this Earth as long as I have, but then, sadly, when I look in the mirror it becomes ruthlessly clear.

This is what ChatGPT has to say about the curious juxtaposition of demo versus psycho:

Psychographic information goes beyond simple demographic data (such as age, gender and income) to provide a deeper understanding of a person’s psyche, helping to segment and target specific groups based on shared psychological traits and behaviors. This information is often used in marketing, advertising and market research to tailor messages, products and services to resonate with the psychological profiles of different audience segments.

I wonder what those balls hoped to be as they were being woven? Maybe a doll’s head? Part of a juggling act? Maybe a toddler’s basketball? Maybe I should embroider sad eyes into them, just to make myself feel even worse about trapping them in the drum. I hear them now sadly thumping against the dryer walls as I head up the stairs.

The psychographic of an individual probably shouldn’t be ignored. But on some levels, why not? Those of us with a youthful psyche who continue to learn and grow and will do so forever until we die (and probably after, depending on how things go in the before- and afterlife) are far more interesting to be around. Which means we have more friends, which means we’re more in demand, which means we’re busier, which means . . . oh wait. I do rather feel overwhelmed in groups and — like our Podcaster of the Month who is a slow coach — wish I had more quiet time to myself and fewer people to deal with.

Ah, the laundry is done, I hug the soft, warm contents and drop them into the basket, head up the stairs, grab out the dry balls and roll them across the floor for the youngest grandson to play with, toss the rest of the laundry onto my bed, head back downstairs and curl up in the drum of the clothes dryer.

Maybe I’m psychographic. Or maybe I’m just psycho. *Shrug*