In ancient Rome, opulence was often coupled with excess, with feasts so grand they would make a modern buffet look like a diet plan. Stoic philosopher Seneca, who was unimpressed by the indulgence around him, painted a vivid picture of banquet halls where guests, having consumed their fill, would use feathers to induce vomiting—yes, really—just to return to the table and start again. “They vomit so they may eat, and eat so that they may vomit,” he wrote, capturing the paradox of excess. Romans knew no limits when it came to food, luxury, and indulgence, a combination that now echoes in our modern practices more than we might like to admit.

Fast forward two thousand years, and we might think we’ve come a long way. But today, many are chasing a paradox of their own with medications like Ozempic. This drug, initially intended for diabetes management, has gained immense popularity for its side effects, curbing appetite and reducing weight. Ozempic works by mimicking the hormone GLP-1, which regulates appetite and insulin levels, thereby helping individuals control their food intake. With Ozempic, the allure of slimness comes not through the discipline of balanced living but through a chemical shortcut—a kind of modern-day feather that, instead of forcing things out, merely blocks the urge in the first place.

The economics behind this trend are staggering. Novo Nordisk, the manufacturer of Ozempic, is expected to generate around $290 billion in revenue in 2024—numbers rivaling the GDP of small countries and representing a substantial slice of its home country, Denmark, with $404.2 billion in GDP in 2023. This kind of revenue isn’t just a testament to the drug’s effectiveness; it’s a sign of society’s willingness to pay handsomely for convenience and the illusion of control overindulgence.

If ancient Romans set the bar for decadence by literally making room to eat more, our era is arguably pushing the boundary further. We want to eat without consequence, and we’ll pay anything for it. While the feather has been replaced by a syringe, the motivation remains strikingly similar: a desire to indulge while escaping the results. There’s something undeniably decadent about this. Just like the Romans, we’re not only embracing luxury but are also cleverly sidestepping the discomfort it brings.

So, as we inject our way past cravings or diets, perhaps we should pause to ask if our “modern” practices are much different from the decadence Seneca decried. Have we evolved beyond the Romans, or are we simply swapping vomitoriums for pharmaceuticals? One can only imagine what Seneca would say—though, knowing him, it wouldn’t be flattering.