Enough: A Year of Not Shopping

I stood in front of the hosiery display for ten minutes marveling at the array: argyle, polka-dotted, ribbed, opaque, chocolate brown, pumpkin orange, Concord grape. The tights were stacked neatly like fruit in a gourmet market. I plucked a pair with sassy polka-dots stitched onto forest-green nylon, held the small package in my hand and rubbed the smooth fabric between my thumb and forefinger.

I wanted those polka-dotted green tights. I needed those tights. “They’re only five dollars. What’s five dollars?” I reasoned as I leaned on my shopping cart in the aisle. “Winter is so long. I’m so tired of wearing the same clothes day in and day out. Plus they’re only tights…it’s not like I’m buying a whole outfit.” I stood for a moment longer with the tights in my hand, imagining how cute they’d look with my grey skirt and knee-high black boots.

Then, sighing, I nestled the package back into the rack and walked out of Target empty-handed.

Four months ago I launched the Shop-Not Project: Twelve months in which I would not purchase any personal items – clothing, shoes, purses, jewelry or accessories. When I announced the plan to my family, my oldest, Noah, exclaimed, “No shopping? For a whole year? But Mommy…you’re going to look so raggedy!”

“Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?” my husband asked.

But radical measures were necessary.

You see, I love to shop. I love to shop like Paris Hilton loves to shop, except that for me, extravagance is not required. The bigger the bargain the better: an Old Navy cardigan marked 75 percent off; consignment store jeans; Target tights in a fresh hue. I love the thrill of the hunt and the satisfaction, the high I get when I come home with something new (or at least new to me).

The downside of shopping, of course, is that it doesn’t take long before the satisfaction ebbs and I hanker for more. Sure, I relish the compliments on my new purse for a week or two. I enjoy the feel of brushed merino on my skin for the first few wears. But the glow of newness fades, and like an addict, I yearn to feed the beast. Kohl’s calls my name, and I answer.

I see this cycle play out in my own kids’ attitude toward material things. “I love my room!” my youngest son, Rowan, announced recently at dinner. “But I just want more stuff for it,” he added in the next breath. This declaration came just four days after his grandfather had visited, bearing the Spinmaster Wireless Hover Copter and an armload of other gifts.

My husband and I talk regularly with our sons about our skewed perception of enough. But they don’t get it, and it’s no wonder. As I sit at our dining room table – hot meal steaming, full glass of clean water in my hand, dishwasher whirring, heat pumping from the vent, poverty statistics pouring from my mouth – I realize that I don’t ever make a distinction between what I “need” and what I “want.” I realize, too, that I don’t have to make that distinction.

After all, what are my real needs? Food on the table three meals a day, a roof over my head, clothes on my back, water in my glass, a car in my driveway. Beyond these basic necessities (as defined by middle-class American standards), everything else falls into the category of “want,” from the gourmet Gouda and cranberry-walnut bread I pick up at the neighborhood mart and the extra set of sheets I stash in my linen closet to the glittery earrings I purchase just because they match my red sweater.

I hope a year sans shopping leaves me better able to discern between need and want and better able to teach my children that distinction as well. But if my struggle in the hosiery aisle is any indication, I’ll need the remaining eight months to get there.

Image by kellikaut. Used with permission, via Flickr. Post by Michelle DeRusha.