NASCAR, like America, is built on the promise of transformation. Cars that look like the ones in our driveways are turned into elite machines capable of doing the unthinkable. That Impala you rented at the Tucson airport? On the highway it handled like a mattress; souped up for the racetrack, it goes 200 miles per hour and takes curves like a racehorse. NASCAR asks us to rethink our lives as full of possibility and gives us a reason to believe in the most American fantasy: With the right pit crew, any of us can be champions.

This country has finally reached peak opinion. The modern-day pamphleteer has a “get ready with me” about the United States-Mexico-Canada Agreement, and yes, we will tune in to watch it live. We just can’t help ourselves. We the people wish to be heard, and for better or for worse, we the people wish to hear the opinions of our fellow citizens, no matter how unhinged they may be. Sometimes this leads to a nation full of tinfoil hats. But sometimes it leads to revolution.

The T-shirt cannon merges three American obsessions: guns, sports and giveaways. It was invented by Tim Derk, the first mascot for the San Antonio Spurs, to hype up basketball fans during commercial breaks. He understood us. We love free stuff, and we will happily denigrate ourselves to get it. When the Jumbotron flashes “T-shirt toss,” we leap to our feet, waving our arms and screaming like toddlers in the hopes that maybe tonight the myth of American meritocracy will prove true and wealth will be lavished upon our humble selves in the form of an XL T-shirt whacking us in the face.

We are not the happiest nation on earth (that would be Finland), but we are probably the smiliest. American teeth have gotten whiter, bigger and brighter, thanks in no small part to the chemists at Procter & Gamble. While we might act like a bully on the global stage, we choose to practice smile diplomacy both at home and abroad. So when our friendly nation smiles at you, we want to make sure that you see it. Best be careful, though — we do bite.

American industriousness means we love solving problems. Sometimes we solve a problem no one asked us to solve. Such is the case with Dude Wipes XL. The supposed problem was the American man’s dirty bottom. The solution? Repackage wet wipes, scent them with coffee beans or pine trees and advertise using scatological jokes and N.F.L. stars. Unfortunately, when flushed, Dude Wipes XL may clog your pipes. That’s the thing about solving problems: Often you end up creating another. See also: the Vietnam War, the internal combustion engine, the internet, Prop 13.

Office workers in America, especially of the millennial variety, know this well. Encapsulated in these lunchtime bowls is everything we aspire to — healthy, seemingly fresh, a diversity of ingredients mingling like the country we call home. It’s also everything we are — sold out to private equity and a congealed, undignified mess. We are a country of high highs and low lows, but if you’re lucky, you can spend most of your life slopping around somewhere in between.

Have we always been so scared of strangers? And when did we, as a country supposedly built on individual liberties, become so enthusiastic about Big Brother-style surveillance? Maybe we are still haunted by the ghost of Michael Wigglesworth and the Massachusetts Puritans who looked out from their chapels and saw only “a waste of howling wilderness.” Maybe we still believe that safety can be found only beneath the eye of a benevolent and omniscient lord. The Puritans had God. We have Jeff Bezos. In a nation plagued by loneliness, perhaps it’s time to start answering the door.

For such optimistic people, we sure do need constant reminders to cheer up. Enter: motivational wall hangings. In colonial times, women made needlepoint samplers embroidered with Bible verses and moralizing slogans. In the 1970s, when faced with tremendous social change, spiking inflation and a protracted war, an uneasy nation bought throw pillows imploring everyone to “Bless this mess.” In the 21st century, millennials waited out the Great Recession by posting “Live, laugh, love” on their living room walls. Like the signs that came before, this was part command and part manifestation. We were wishing for a life we’re still waiting for.

The numbers are stark. A mere 40 years ago, children outnumbered pets. Today, there are almost 20 million more dogs than there are human children. Some blame the drooping birthrate on the economy and the government’s stubborn refusal to invest in universal services like child care and paid family leave. Fur babies, as they’ve been called, might eat your couch, but instead of four years of college, you have to pay only for five months of puppy school. And sure, you don’t have to push Fido around the farmers’ market in a stroller, but he’s such a good boy, and mama needs some kale.