There’s a cold rain falling outside, and today is one of the grayest I’ve ever seen. On television one finds images of snow and all its various victims. It all seems a little too appropriate: We are a nation that’s hunkered down and frozen.

‘Tis the season for events that seem custom-made for metaphor. Like the economy, we wish our planes would just take off already, but they can’t due to factors beyond our control. And, as we’re finding out, the steps being taken on our behalves in order to ameliorate the situation can be quite toxic.

As ever, the suggestions meted out to the ordinary American seem poignantly absurd. How does one deal with airline delays and flight cancellations? Get to the airport early, of course — because the only way to combat waiting is with more waiting. And how can one pitch in to fix the busted economy? Spend more money. Naturally.

It all seems a little pat-on-the-head, this advice. It’s possible that it’s better to say something rather than nothing, but we’re supposed to be a nation of rugged independence; isn’t anyone else resentful of being spoken to like a child anymore?

As a coping mechanism the "let’s just ask everyone to spend more money" method does not have the air of a well thought-out Plan B. Actually, anyone who’s ever been told that they could help out by setting the table is probably experiencing a massive case of déjà vu whenever they watch the news, these days. Worse, one feels that those who encourage us to spend are being a little less than honest. We half expect that the genuine answer to any question about how us ordinary folk can help the economic situation would be the same advice that any stranded traveler has heard over and over: "There’s nothing you can do. Just hold on tight and wait."

And what about the grotesque irony of asking a workforce that’s losing jobs hand over fist to relax and open its wallets extra wide? One is reminded of the old comic-strip set-up that features a pair of prisoners hanging by their wrists in some smelly mediaeval dungeon, one saying to the other, "Well, aren’t you going to rescue me?"

It’s disturbing. For one thing, the American consumer already treats spending money the same way dogs treat eating food — with insatiable gusto. Asking us to ramp up the spending is ludicrous. We could if we would, Jack — can’t you see that there’s something wrong here?

For another thing, the whole program seems like a huge gamble. Okay, so we’re in financial trouble; seems like the sensible thing for the average American to do would be to reduce spending, save whatever they can, and get ready for some hard times. But why not take some risks? If we all spend money just as hard and fast as we can, maybe we’ll jumpstart the economy and your employer won’t have to lay you off! Of course, if you lose this bet, you’ll wind up with no job, no savings, and whatever nice stuff you can carry away from the place where you used to live.

Nobody really celebrates Labor Day anymore. And hardly anybody talks about the labor market or labor relations unless a bunch of people wind up out of work, or when there’s a huge government bailout on the line. Work is a dour necessity that we refuse to define ourselves by; what’s important is what our income (or our debt) allows us to buy, or where it allows us to shop.

Maybe it’s the after-effect of the Cold War — that costly chess game played against opponents who claimed to represent the interests of the workers of the world. These days, we don’t go in for much of that kind of talk. Mention "workers’ rights" in some quarters, and you’ll be calling an ambulance to cart away someone who’s just eye-rolled himself into having a stroke. But if "workers" are out, then "consumers" are very definitely in. At the very least, it’s a more inclusive term: not everybody works, but any tween with an allowance can be a consumer.

The annoying thing about this shift in identity, however, is the changing perception of the place from where our rights originate. When we demand our rights, we are no longer proclaiming them with our dignity and usefulness as working people, but as mere customers whose insistence upon being treated with respect and humanity comes from the fact that we paid for it. Or even, in some cases, the notion that hypothetically we might, some time in the future, pay for something.

Being inveigled to kick in all the cash we can muster in some bizarre up-from-the-bottom bailout only serves to remind us that the things we do are no longer important, but rather the things that we buy are. Should I work harder or strive to be more efficient? Naw, just get out there and spend. It’s this shift in attitudes that have turned Labor Day into some half-remembered excuse for a bar-b-que beer-buzz with a political meaning that we desperately try to avoid thinking about.

But if it’s true — if we now identify our primary societal role as one of consumption, doesn’t if follow that we consumers should get our own holiday? A day off wherein we celebrate our holy place in the cultural framework? Where we take time out to recall just what we’re good for — which is buying stuff? Shouldn’t we have one of those?

Oh, wait….

Merry Christmas.