Will the Guilty Party Please Stop Buying

My best friend tells me that her reaction to my commitment wasn’t revulsion (see Gift Cards, Best Friends, and Buddhism, 8/24/10). It was incomprehension. I laugh and accept her revision. She goes on to comment that she thinks I have tapped into something that is nagging those of us who have achieved a measure of success. She ventures that maybe we just all feel a little too guilty.

I think about this for awhile. Do I feel guilty? And if I do, is it tied to success? Is that fueling my "no-buy" commitment? Success is really hard to define and measure, except in this instance, I am pretty sure she’s talking about money. I live in a metropolitan area where in order to live a middle-class life in an apartment larger than a studio (unless you want multiple roommates) in a neighborhood where you aren’t afraid to walk the 3, 4, 5 blocks from the train/subway home, a six-figure household income is almost requisite. Add kids and a car and clothing to the mix and even that level of income is inadequate.

I have lived with my daughter in attics and basements (both illegal) where the electricity was shared with the legal tenants. We had to plan our mornings around who was using the hairdryer on which floor and when. Our ability to become legal at ground level where we each finally had our own rooms (mine was the size of a walk-in closet) was pure luck – a friend of a friend who offered reasonable rent in return for a good tenant.

My last apartment in the city was owned by a man who was too lazy to raise the rent (or didn’t want to see me cry) for the entire ten years I lived there. This was very unusual good fortune in this city of greed – I know that and I’m grateful. I saved with the fervor of one obsessed. When I finally accumulated enough for a down payment on a co-op apartment, I settled for a smaller place than I would have liked because I couldn't afford more. If anything, I’m angry about that – I could tolerate a little more success quite easily. I still work extra jobs to have what I have and do what I do. I have not reached the zenith of what I would consider financial success. Not even close.

Now there is something to be said about guilt relative to having and accumulating if it’s always all about oneself. Two for me, none for you. I don’t know about this. I’ve been paying it forward ever since my angel friend gave me those five twenties in the bottom of a bag (see How Much Is Enough, 8/20/10), and I got my own nose above the water level. Although I usually stop short at saying someone “deserves” anything (I’ll probably explain that sometime), I can’t tolerate the idea of people of any age (but especially if they are under 18 or over 60) who are hungry and/or cold, children without a holiday gift, or veterans without employment. I have, I give. One for me, one for you. Even when I didn’t have, I gave. None for me, one for you. If that’s guilt, it’s highly sublimated, where it should be. Here, I’ll give you all my “stuff.”

But something else is driving this train.

Gift Cards, Best Friends, and Buddhism

My daughter calls me with a concern. What about gift cards? She has “a ton” of them – from a variety of stores, for a variety of amounts. What should she do? She is clearly looking for motherly direction. I stall a little, “What do you want to do?” “I don’t know,” she says, “I just thought of it. Do they ‘count’?” Well, I say, cautiously. I am making this up as I go, you see. Yes, I think they ‘count’ because the end result of using them is still acquiring – and the point is to not acquire. Then I get practical. Will they expire? No, she says but some of them might start to lose their value. I come up with two suggestions for that circumstance, both of which satisfy her. One is to use them, if possible, for the winter coat and boots that are her “exceptions” (similar to my sneakers) that we negotiated from the start. The other is to use their value to purchase gifts as necessary. Her friends are having babies so this could perhaps be useful. But if the cards don’t expire and won’t lose value, put them away and forget about them for a year. Problem solved.

We catch up with each other a few nights later. She asks me what I’m doing and I tell her that I’m looking around at my stuff, contemplating what I can get rid of. She giggles and tells me she’s been doing the same thing. She’s eyeing her book shelf – all the novels that she’s read and will never read again or that she hasn’t read and won’t. I tell her I’m thinking about my 33 rpm record album collection from the 60s and 70s. We laugh conspiratorially. Neither one of us is ready to start selling or giving away all our possessions but we are seriously considering what we want to surround ourselves with (or not).

I tell my best friend about our commitment over lunch before a matinee. She gives me a look that I interpret as between shock and revulsion. “Why would you want to do that?” she demands. After all, shopping is our mutual definition of ‘fun’. For a minute, I am a teensy bit sorry I brought up the subject – if you recall, I don’t like having to defend myself, but I keep going. “I have so much,” I say. “I don’t really need anything.” She acknowledges that this is also true of her, but still – there is that thrill of acquisition. Why would I want to give that up? We talk another few minutes about it, then head to the theater. Later, during intermission, she allows that she’s been thinking about what she could give up for a year. She declares absolutely not to clothes, bags, shoes, and product. Those are out of the question. But, she says, she could give up buying new things for the house. We both bought our apartments the year we turned 50 – and we’ve had enormous amounts of fun decorating. I nod in agreement – I’ve already declared that moratorium but I’m ready to support her if she decides to go that route. Supporting her means I won’t egg her on when she’s standing in a store weighing whether or not to purchase another item she doesn’t need.

Later, I send her the link to my just-launched blog. She wonders how I will find time for this and then answers her own question (witty and clever person that she is) – I will use the time I have saved by not shopping. She continues teasing me, asking “Are we skidding toward Buddhism? And would you be happy with a floor mat and a bowl?”

Very funny, I tell her. I could probably embrace Buddhism, but ix-nay on the floor mat and bowl!

How Much Is Too Much?

Part 2

I moved to the big city when I was 30. My daughter, then 8, went to a very good school in a very nice neighborhood. Her friends were the children of doctors or lawyers or bankers. This meant clothes from Bloomingdales and the local children’s boutique, certain sneakers in more than one color, tennis lessons, piano lessons, ballet lessons, multiple Cabbage Patch dolls, expensive school supplies to be purchased from a particular store according to a very explicit list sent home by the teacher, birthday parties (but not at one’s home, heaven forbid), Swatch watches, a computer. Later it meant nice gifts for friends having bar/bat mitzvahs, “real” jewelry, designer jeans and tuition to attend a private high school.

I worked like crazy, two jobs, three jobs, often seven days a week to make it all happen. I didn’t mind – I have boundless supplies of energy. I liked my work, for the most part. I was learning new things and challenging myself. I was happy to be able to give my daughter most of what she wanted. Like a lot of parents, I went without things myself but I never stopped wanting them. I kept a running list of all the “stuff” I coveted.

Gradually the tide began to turn. I got better jobs and earned more, my second and third jobs were more lucrative, and I was able to save money. The student loans and tuitions (hers and mine) were paid. My daughter was launched into her own life. And gradually, I began to feel it was my turn. I began to acquire. At first, my acquisitions were tentative and then they were frantic. Choosing was hard for me. So I didn’t – I bought it all. Good sense often flew out the window. I would “stock up” on things, buying 3 or 4 of an item just to have a stockpile at home. It somehow made me feel safer, to know that I wasn’t going to run out of something vital…. like shampoo or baking powder.

My best friend and I would go shopping and I’d come home with new lampshades, more throw pillows, vases, mugs, pottery in my favorite colors, candle holders, original art for the walls, statues of dancers, hand-made jewelry. Every spring I would turn my 4’x10’ terrace into a jungle of flowers. I seriously augmented my already sizeable collection of Christmas tree ornaments. I bought a lot of gifts for people I love. I had a very good time. More was definitely better.

Then something changed. I’m not sure the exact moment it happened, but I began to feel bogged down. Full. Gluttonous. I started dreading decorating at Christmas (my favorite of all holidays) because I just didn’t want to get all the “stuff” out. I didn’t want to unpack it, handle it, re-pack it a few short weeks later, and try to stuff it all back in the hall closet in the same configuration in which it started

I began to feel really impatient and depressed every time I had to dust – a task I loathe under the best conditions. I realized as I had to lift each and every “thing” I had collected from just about every spare surface in my entire apartment that I hardly ever noticed most of what was there. And if I had to recollect what I had, I knew that I would be hard pressed to remember all those supposedly prized possessions.

Yes.... there will be more.

How Much Is Enough?

Part 1
It’s a curious phenomenon. When I had nothing (or so I thought), I wanted everything. And when I got what I thought I wanted, I looked around at my “stuff” and started thinking about how to divest myself of it all.

I’m on this self-imposed shopping fast now. The decision to do it was not impulsive. The subject of what is enough, too much, and not enough has been percolating in me for awhile. “Not enough” plagued me since I was about 19 and “too much” took over when I was about 52. I don’t think I even paused at “enough.” I’m not sure I would have known what or when that was.

I want to understand this so I let my mind wander as I try to unravel my own path from perceived deprivation to saturation. I should preface this by saying that I am aware that in my comfortable middle class state, I am clueless about how real deprivation feels…. the deprivation of starvation, of homelessness, of inability to pay for needed health care. This is not about real lack, it’s about perceived lack.

 I would consider my life as a child fairly privileged– very privileged compared with some of my friends. Big house, big yard, ponds for swimming, own room, nice bedroom set, vacations, motor home, tree house, bikes, Barbies and all their paraphernalia. Sure, there were things I wanted and couldn’t have because they were too expensive. My mom sometimes told us not to show our father our new school clothes because he would be mad at her. Not that he was frugal by any stretch of the imagination. He just had his own priorities and they weren’t little girls’ clothing. More than once, I overheard my mother tell him that there wasn’t a money tree in the back yard. This was because his preferences ran toward radio equipment, stocking ponds with fish, and starting businesses. I worked from the minute I turned 15 and from then on, took responsibility for buying my own clothes, and funding my fun.

The first feeling of hopelessness around “having” came four years later. I had my own apartment, worked 50+ hours a week in a restaurant as a cook, and took home exactly $100 weekly. It was minimum wage, no time-and-a-half, and I felt stuck-stuck-stuck. I was angry and resentful when my employers – who were also my friends – went on an exotic vacation, and left me in charge of the kitchen. Honored on the one hand to be trusted, I was jealous – jealous – jealous on the other. I despaired of ever being able to live a life like theirs and I could think of nothing except what I did not have.

 Fast forward five years. I had a beautiful baby girl and was en route to a divorce. Most of the rest of my twenties as a single mom were a struggle emotionally and financially. I also had a lot of help. My mom and grandma sometimes slipped a twenty into my purse when I wasn’t looking, or in my hand as I took my leave. Once, an angel disguised as my friend gave me a bag of little gifts with five twenty-dollar bills in the bottom. I used that money for groceries and gas and made it last for weeks. But although this was a difficult time, it wasn’t a hopeless time. I was a student for much of it, working on a master’s degree, and supporting my daughter on a graduate assistantship and student loans. My little girl and I had a lot of fun together, and I had big plans for the future.
To be continued.....

The Commitment

I sit with my daughter on a wide rock ledge in Maine, overlooking what is undoubtedly our favorite spot in the universe, the beaches of Kennebunk. We have chosen a long section where there are rocks instead of sand because we like the sound the waves make as they fall back into the ocean here. The sun is setting way too quickly. We are glad that we brought our hoodies. Only a few people still remain along this stretch – a couple walking, holding hands, and five or six teens, laughing and joking as they lean against their car and the rock ledge, stretching out the day. It is our annual “girl’s weekend” in Maine and we are of the belief that summer would not be summer without it.

We’ve been chatting about a number of things but during a lull in our conversation, I venture that I’ve been thinking about a challenge that I’d like to take on. I say that I want to commit to a year of not buying any new clothes or shoes. “Why?” she wants to know. This is huge. One of our favorite activities together is shopping. “Well,” I explain, “it’s just something that’s been nagging at me for awhile. I have so much. I have things I’ve never worn, and I can go for a few weeks without wearing the same item twice. I’d like to just wear some things out for a change.” She is more interested than aghast and I’m grateful because I don’t like having to defend myself. We’ve had conversations before about the craziness of accumulating – we’ve already vowed not to buy more tchotchkes for our apartments. We’ve also agreed to cut way back on our spending at Christmas for each other, preferring to have experiences together instead. She wonders when I will start, and I tell her, “very soon, imminently.” I just need to think a little more about the rules I will self-impose. I probably won’t include sneakers. Since I have very bad feet (thanks to mom and grandma) and I live in sneakers, I know I will likely need to replace my current pair before a year passes.

The next morning, over breakfast, she tells me that she’s been thinking about my challenge and would like to join me. Everything I said last night makes perfect sense to her. I am thrilled. For the rest of our Maine time, we repeatedly return to this discussion, fleshing out the details of our commitment. We add bags to the “no-buy” list. This will be easy for me – I am loyal to one bag at a time. I hate to change them, so I never match and I don’t care. But she loves bags as much as she loves shoes. She adds “product” because she’s constantly trying out new lotions and potions. She clarifies that she won’t buy new until she uses up the old. I can live with that. That’s pretty much of a non-issue for me, too.

The more we talk about our plan, the more excited we are. We discuss what might be hard for us, and formulate strategies to ward off temptation. We agree to cancel catalogs and unsubscribe to store solicitations by email. We will call each other if we feel at risk of cheating. We decide now is the time to begin and we plan to break our fast at this time next year in Maine. We laugh together because we realize that after a year of a self-imposed shopping boycott, either we’ll want to buy everything, or we’ll realize we need nothing! I’m banking on the latter.

Now What Do I Do?

I take a sharp breath. I feel a punch of fear just under my ribcage. I have just opened an email from someone in my life, a writer, who is my standard bearer for writing. “I’d like it to be time,” she writes, “that you begin your own blog.” In her opinion, I should be sharing my experiences and insights with others, not just her. She says it’s really simple to set up a blog and sends me a link to blogspot to demonstrate her point.

This is not the first time she has tossed similar words in my direction. The occasion now is that I have commented on a provocative blog entry that she has written about the idea of home. Although I have been brief, what I write makes it obvious that I have a lot more to say on the subject.

Setting up a blog is easy from a technical point of view. From the internal point of view, it is not so easy, at least for people like me who are both compulsive and intensely private. Almost every decision creates conflict, especially when I come face to face with the question of what to call it and whether to use my “real” name. I remember another conversation between us about writing. I had written, “I want to be heard but if I put myself out there, I risk being known. If I am known, can I still navigate this world and meet people’s gaze? Where are the boundaries? Will I survive the scrutiny? Writing is the easy part… it is the sharing that evokes incredible panic.” This, she did not understand. I tried to explain my anxiety around being heard (or not) and feeling invisible. She responded simply, “Courage.”

Whether it is courage or a moment of impulsive insanity that brought me here, I do not know. It’s not entirely clear to me what this blog will be about, but I expect that I will write about that which provokes and stimulates me. A lot of things do. Should I write something along the way that provokes you too, please comment. It would be nice if this blog became a community gathering place.