Luxury, guilt and reality

I just got back from a home store, and now I have these serious questions, maybe even life questions. At very least, philosophical ones. (I'm like that; I go into a home store and come out thinking like Aristotle.)
Questions like those you have when a long, lumbering railway train passes by, rattling along a rusty old track, and blows its whistle forlornly: Where is it going? Will it be a place better than this place? Should I be on that train? Will I ever be on that train? (HEY! Remember what your favorite teacher always said: "There is no such thing as a stupid question.")
The incubator for my thoughts was on a low shelf in the home store's bathroom section, next to a silver mirror and a tissue cozy. Sheathed in a lovely rectangular box, sporting a model enacting its use in a bubble-filled bath tub, was a gilded tray. It was the kind that is meant to stretch across the tub, just above your chest and south of your chin.
What made this tray so thought-provoking was its design. It had a place for a book, a scented candle, and, the piece de resistance, a long-stemmed glass of wine.
I stood staring at the box. My mouth was open. I could see myself in that tub. My head was tipped back onto a massaging bath pillow, and I was soaking in milk and honey, living, if only momentarily, like one of the Hilton sisters -- before she went on television.
Reality check
I tipped the box gingerly to the side. Twenty-nine dollars and 99 cents. Reality clicked.
"What a waste of money!" I thought coming to my senses. "Who would buy such a thing? Certainly not me, not unless it had slots for bills to pay and a notebook to jot down the things I need to do when the bath is over."
Clunk! I returned the box to the shelf. I had two good reasons: Costs too much; money better spent elsewhere. Requires lazy time; time better spent elsewhere.
It was, after all, ridiculous. As was the next item on display, one shelf over: the Bath-Side Champagne Bucket. This was meant to hang over the side of the tub and hold a chilled bottle of bubbly. "It would have to be our first wedding anniversary or an illicit affair to make me buy that," I thought.
Asking questions
Are there really people who buy these things? Who are they? Where are they?
I could no more buy the tray, bucket or pillow than Miss Daisy could feel comfortable having a chauffeur. Even if I could bring myself to buy one of the things, I could never use it, not more than once anyway. And I started to wonder, amid my self-righteous poorness, why not?
Is this a good thing or a bad thing?
Should I be on that train?
Every self-help book from Deepak Choprah's to Dr. Andrew Weil's promotes attending to one's self. They say that if you don't love yourself first, you can't love anybody else. They argue that you should give at least as much attention to YOUR needs as to your spouse's and children's needs. Being good to yourself is good for THEM, they insist.
But they don't seem to address guilt. For example, the guilt I might feel over sipping champagne in a bubbly bath tub while the toilet needs to be cleaned (a mere foot away, no less). The truth is, I think wine glass bath trays, champagne buckets and massaging pillows are just too much for someone like me.
Compromising
I could break down and force myself to buy them -- the whole trio of Miss Daisy chauffeurs, then force myself to use them, repeatedly. I could put the world on hold and waste time after having wasted money and try to learn to not feel guilty. But I doubt it would make me happy.
The solution, perhaps, is a compromise. (Perhaps, instead of the candle and wine slots, they might design a tray with beer and chips holders. Or perhaps, instead of a champagne bucket, they might consider an MD20/20 carrier. Just kidding ... I think.) Maybe I could buy the book, the scented candle and a bottle of wine and forgo the tray.
What, after all, would be the downside of that?
murphy@vindy.com