The Commitment Revisited

Come Friday morning, my sweet daughter and I will load up my car and head north and slightly east for our eagerly anticipated yearly sojourn to Maine where we will enjoy a four-day weekend. It was during last year’s trip that we made a commitment to each other that we would cease and desist our compulsive clothing-shoes-bags-cosmetics buying for one year.  I had been thinking about it for several weeks before I unveiled my plan to her. It took her less than 24 hours to come willingly on board.

Neither of us can believe the year is over already.  I thought that I would spend more time writing about it as I grappled with urges and impulses. Strangely enough, there weren’t that many.  Yes, there were a few times when I came close to cheating.  As winter dragged on, seeming never to end in the northeast or anywhere else, I lusted after spring clothes in the few catalogs I hadn’t cancelled.  After months of moving them directly from mailbox to garbage can, I started browsing again. I began to get emails from my favorite stores with subject lines,  “We’ve missed you”,  along with “Just for you” coupons in the mail if I’d only return to the fold. But I didn’t succumb to the enticements and the urges went away once I was able to wash those sweaters one last time and unearth another season’s clothing from storage.

A trip into a Kohl’s in early May where I stopped to look for slim chinos for my skinny brother almost got me into trouble.  I was in a hurry, since I was en route home from seeing him and still had 4-1/2 hours to go. As an infrequent visitor to Kohl’s,  I didn’t know where to find the pants  so I just turned right as I burst into the store, figuring I’d run into them sooner or later.  At the end of the first aisle, displayed on a model was a turquoise and navy striped casual top, the colors heather-like. I stopped. Anyone who knows me well knows I like any color as long as it’s blue or purple. Anyone who knows me well would have stopped at this display and thought, “That top looks just like Jan.” My sister or my daughter or my best friend, had they been the ones stopping at this display might actually have bought it, thinking it would be a great gift.  I looked at it closely, found my size, thought, “No, keep going.” I kept going, found the pants, bought the pants, and went back to the top.  I argued with myself  -- “That’s so cute. You don’t have anything like it. It would go with so many things.” “Yes, it’s cute, but there will be other cute things. You don’t need it.” “But I WANT it.” “But you will feel terrible if you cheat. “ So I wrote down the brand and all the identifying information I could locate and got out of Kohl’s, integrity intact.

But it was not the end of it. I REALLY coveted that top. I looked it up on line, toyed with putting it in my shopping cart, and went through the same argument with myself all over again. “You don’t need it.” “But I WANT it.”  Two weeks’ later, pulled by a magnet into the same Kohl’s store, it was still there.  I picked it up, thought about trying it on, put it down.  My heart knew that I really would feel worse cheating than leaving it behind. I resolved to stop torturing myself.

Then I went to Paris in June with my best friend. Wherever we go, we shop. Before leaving, I formulated a plan. My daughter had been to Paris several years ago and came back with “stuff” for me – a small replica of the Eiffel Tower, a print of Degas’ sculpture of the 14-year-old Dancer, a trendy bag, a magnet.  I promised myself that I would be selective – perhaps if I found a small piece of inexpensive art in Montmarte, or another Degas print from Musee D’Orsay, I would buy them. But this would not be a trip of accumulation. Since I already had some things from Paris, I didn’t need to overdo it.  I did well and wasn’t tempted by too much. Things were frightfully expensive anyway, always a deterrent. I got vicarious pleasure from watching my friend shop.  I had fun buying some things for my daughter. And then I saw “The Dress.” It was in a corner store, displayed on a mannequin in the window -- a blue and white sun dress.  Just the type of dress one might wear to a polo match (not that I’ve ever been to one).  Feminine, pretty…… and blue.  We saw it one evening after dark – the store was closed. It was drizzling slightly outside. We were tired and eager to get back to our hotel. But afterwards, I could not get the dress out of my mind.  We spent time during the subsequent two evenings looking for the store again – we had failed to note its location the first time around, and only knew the general neighborhood.  The night before we left to come home, we finally found it --  open this time.  The dress on the mannequin was the only one left in that color. I checked the price tag – 150 Euros. Gasp. There were other dresses in the same style, different patterns on the racks, so rather than undress the mannequin, I tried on one of those.  I gazed at myself in the dressing room mirror, not really enamored with how the dress looked on me. Maybe I would have liked it better ten years ago. I was disappointed and also relieved.  150 Euros.  I’m not a math whiz but I knew that was about $215. I left the dressing room and put the dress back on the rack. “How’d you like it?” my friend asked. “Nah,” I said. “Not quite right.” Leaving the store, I peeked at the size tag on the mannequin model’s dress. It was not my size.  More relief.  As we walked down the street, I thanked my friend for her patience in helping me find the store again. She wanted to know what I would have done had I liked the dress on me AND had the blue one been the right size.  I told her that I hoped the fact that I wouldn’t spend over $200 on a dress in the United States would have deterred me ultimately from spending that amount on a dress in another country.

Two near misses.  One solid year without shopping for clothes I did not need.  This is notwithstanding the underwear and shirt my brother’s and my little side trip to Cody necessitated (see You Forgot My Suitcase, 7/17/11).   

My daughter and I have considered what the end of this commitment means. We’ve both been cleaning out our closets, getting rid of things we don’t/won’t wear, things we shouldn’t have bought in the past but did. She assesses she needs a new black bag for work. I need new sneakers. I actually noticed a hole in mine early this week. I know that I still, even a year later, do not need anything more. I can easily go another fall, winter, spring and summer on what I have. Am I bored with some of my things? Perhaps a little. Can I manage that boredom? Absolutely. Does this mean I’m signing on for another year of a no-shopping-commitment? You bet.

Curbing the Christmas Shopping Frenzy

It’s been four months since my daughter and I made a pact during our annual trek to Maine to not buy any new clothes, shoes, bags, or (in her case) new and unnecessary “product” (i.e. make-up, creams, and other potions) for a year. The reason was simple – I had become uneasy over my compulsive need to accumulate. I felt guilty because I have so much that buying more seemed gluttonous and immoral. My space felt crowded and disorganized, which was leading to overwhelmed. My inner guide whispered, “j u s t   s t o p.”

For a few weeks, I wrote about having/not having and enough/not enough, and then my thoughts turned to other things. But “the commitment” remains in effect.  I’ve had one instance of “catalog longing” over a sweater in colors that soothe me. It lasted just about one moment. Most catalogs that still come to my home go straight to the recycling pile without a second glance. I stopped all retail email solicitations, which has been a relief. There is enough clogging my in-box. What manages to slip through on occasion is simply deleted.

I had an interesting debate with my best friend in September about whether rain shoes – also seen in a catalog - constitute a need or a want. She argued that they should not be on the no-buy list; I wasn’t so sure. Her reasoning included a reference to wet feet and discomfort. Mine included the suspicion that I could get along without them. The conversation was inconclusive. I didn’t throw the catalog out, but I haven’t ordered them either. That was two months ago. I’ll see how I feel about it when the next rainy season comes around.

Now Christmas is coming. ‘Tis the season of gluttony and excess. I realized in the early fall that Christmas was going to require some strategizing.

In Maine, before we made our commitment to each other, my daughter had bought me a small piece of art that I loved and I had bought her a couple of items she wanted. We often do that when we are together on vacation and then save our purchases for Christmas. Ordinarily, that would be just the beginning of our shopping-for-each-other-frenzy. But by October, we had determined that it had been the end instead. The present shower was over, at least between us.

This is not easy for me but it’s palatable because she and I are doing it together. I love buying/giving presents. I love the excitement that goes along with pleasing someone I love with something I know they will love. But the reality is that it’s rarely some-thing with me – more like some-things. Once I start, it’s hard for me to stop. My brother-in-law teases me about my shopping stamina. He’ll walk in the room and, if I’m there, wonder, “Stores closed?”  

A few years ago before Christmas, my best friend had said in passing that she thought she would like a charm bracelet. I bought her the bracelet, and I didn’t stop buying charms until I had exhausted every single thing I could think of that might have meaning to her. And yes, she loved it, and I loved giving it to her, but it serves as an example of my compulsiveness where shopping is concerned. Last year, my entrepreneurial daughter mentioned a desire to make her own greeting cards. I didn’t stop until I bought every conceivable tool, accessory, paper, rubber stamp, punch, ink, etc etc etc that I could think of in order to create her own card studio. Actually, I might have missed something. I simply ran out of time.

Therefore, curbing my Christmas shopping habit is a very big deal. I suspect that if I were not buried in school work, I would find this more painful. Next year, when my coursework is over will be a better test of my control. For now, the compulsiveness that gets my papers done will partially replace my throbbing need to go Christmas shopping. I simply do not have time.

I am not planning to give up Christmas altogether. I suspect a cold turkey decision would depress me. I have a brother who would be devastated and would just not “get it”. And I have other family and friends I still want to please. There are elements about Christmas I love, and I hope some of them will remain when whatever inside me that’s shifting settles. More than the wish to declutter and stop accumulating, I want to curb compulsivity so it’s not driving me. But underneath compulsive is also a generous soul – and I do not want to lose her.

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.