I’d be a hypocrite — no, I AM a hypocrite — for saying that I abhor commercialism. But I say it even if I get sucked into its vortex often enough to get an eye roll from my wife.

I rage against the machine — a machine that fills the void on television, radio, and social media with voices telling me that if I buy this compression workout jersey, I’ll get in better shape, or that watch that will make me tell time better.

Some years ago, I was walking in Manhattan with my wife, Carla, and decided I had to buy my father a pen. Dad is a classic, old-school gentleman who still writes long letters with rollerball and paper. So I walk into a store that sells Cartier pens. I may know a little bit about hearts and also about woodworking tools, but about fashion? Not so much.

So I said to the salesman, “I’d like to buy that pen.”

“Excellent!” he said. “Shall I gift wrap it?”

“Sure,” I said, then, “Oh, how much is it?”

When he told me that it was $659.98, I felt faint.

“Why?” I shouted when the blood came back into my head. “It’s just acrylic.”

The salesman stood still, expressionless.

I was pretty sure that my Dad would never in a million years want a $600 pen just for the Cartier name. So I went home and made him a nicer pen on my wood lathe out of Macassar Ebony with rhodium and gold metal parts, all the while fuming about Cartier.

Another time, also in Manhattan with Carla (if you sense an anti-Manhattan theme here, you are catching on), we passed a Louis Vuitton store. (Did I mention I really know nothing about fashion?)

Carla said, “Oh, they have fancy bags.”

I said, magnanimously, “Let’s go in. I’ll buy you one.”

She laughed and said, “Oh, yeah. Did you see the prices?”

I looked through the window and my eyes saw $49.95. I figured, yeah, that’s a little expensive, but it is for Carla. (I clearly know even less about handbags.)

So we go in, Carla smiling indulgently, knowing I was about to learn my lesson.

“I’d like this bag, the one for 50 dollars,” I said.

A guy whose name tag said Jacques and had a fake French accent said, “No! Eeet ees four thousand nine hundred and ninety five dollairs.”

“WHAT?” I shouted, opening the bag to look inside. “It’s only a bag! Did the leather come from sacred cows? Does it turn into a genie?”

“Eeet eez a piece of art,” Jacques said. (I was pretty sure he had a Brooklyn accent under there and that his real name was Jack or Jackie.)

So, feeling stupid and a bit like a scorned child, I muttered, “Yeah, well, I know art, and that ain’t it!” and walked out the door.

I went on and on about how this is like the fable of the Emperor’s New Clothes. Carla, the real magnanimous one, grabbed my hand and said, “I didn’t really like the bag,” trying hard not to laugh.

Of course, when it’s something I want, I am the biggest sucker in the planet. Recently, I needed a new stethoscope, one with hearing augmentation because I’m getting deaf. So I go online and get really impressed with the sleek Eko 500 and spend way too much money … it looks so cool.

How is it? Mweh. I later learned I could have done just as well to buy a small adaptor for my old (perfectly good) stethoscope for a fraction of the cost.

Or how about my latest dalliance with Instagram. I love to watch all the woodworking posts (my Instagram name is “treetobench”). Of course, in between posts, there are ads telling me to buy all sorts of tools and other things, and oh, yeah, I get suckered on a regular basis to buy, well, garbage. One of the most epic purchases occurred one day after a long hike. I’m scrolling Instagram and there’s an ad for moisture wicking underwear to keep your nether regions dry. I had just been sweating and had the icky stickies, so I got suckered in, paid an emperor’s fortune for two pair of underwear that promised to make me into superman, only to conclude that the emperor’s clothes still stick.