Money Can’t Buy You Love, But It Can Buy An Awful Lot of Stuff
I was plagued by the idea that everything I had would disappear. I’d lost my job, my husband had left, and I dreamt nightly I would end up living in a refrigerator box.
The previous me, the one that had not just watched her life disassemble, would have made a budget, cut out non-essentials, created a spreadsheet of reassurance.
Instead, I became addicted to online shopping.
I had always liked to shop— I took immense pleasure in finding a good deal. I’d stockpile — sometimes it worked out well — I still love the same eye makeup remover I’ve used since I was sixteen, and nothing beats extra soft Kleenex. However, I doubt seriously I will ever need any of those 20 pairs of “Nearly Nude” pantyhose, and certainly not in size A. This was basically my version of gambling — some people get a thrill out of the slots in Vegas — I bet I will eventually use all 14 jugs of Tide I bought on Groupon.
I looked for sales, delighted in discounts, bought in bulk. It was a hobby; I never spent more in a month than I was making
But as my life felt increasingly out of control, the very act of pressing the “buy now” button would, simultaneously, create intense waves of terror about money, and an endorphin-like release of pleasure, knowing that soon, most likely in two days, with free shipping, I would have 36 rolls of paper towels, 72 rolls of Ultra Strong toilet paper, 6 boxes of Barbara’s Shredded Oats (great price!), aloe vera juice (it’s good for me, and maybe I’d like it), a squatty potty, 500 dog poop bags, flocked hangers and a pink Himalayan salt candle holder. And these were just the things I deemed as necessities.
Soon, I was consumed with deal-hunting. The impending “Friends and Family” sale at Bloomingdale’s was the most important event in my life, save for the Nordstrom Half-Yearly. I poured over the catalogs, trolled the websites. I bought 15 pairs of the same black leggings, a bunch of great work clothes (despite being unemployed), dozens of white T-shirts, socks, boots, work-out wear, tops, costume jewelry, jeans, dresses, things I thought . And while my credit card bills were staggering, I took pride in the fact that I NEVER paid full retail for anything! That I needed none of this was irrelevant.
As I waged a daily war with a depression that I thought might consume me, for some unknown reason, shopping gave me a rush like I had never known.
At this point, I was basically only leaving the house to go to therapy, Al-Anon meetings, or on the occasional dog walk. My outfits alternated between flannel pajamas and sweats. But the high I got when I would come home and my front porch would be covered with packages was indescribable. Presents? For me? How exciting! And truthfully, a lot of the boxes were filled with surprises, because, half the time, I couldn’t remember what I’d bought.
It occurred to me that I was coming unglued. On some level I knew that I didn’t need another black purse, wrap, dress, pair of tights. I definitely didn’t need a floor length evening gown for all the events I wasn’t attending.
I never told my therapist about the shopping sprees — I never told anyone. My friend Anne figured it out, but only because she was practically living with me and one night it took her 20 minutes to get to the front door.
I just kept buying things. Refinery29 had an article with all the best drugstore beauty products — I bought them all — even though I didn’t suffer from dandruff, rosacea or alopecia. Allure Magazine Beauty Awards? I bought the editor and reader picks. And don’t get me started on all the things in Real Simple that one needs to own. I was running out of places to put things — and I was living alone in a house that had just recently been home to 5 people!
Despite the fact that I’d grown up in a house with an addict and was attending Al-Anon meetings, I didn’t recognize my behavior as an addiction. After all, I could stop whenever I wanted, right?
I was a “high roller” in the world of shopping. But it was getting harder to feel the buzz, even as I racked up points, notes, star rewards,VIP invitations.
I had more “things” than I could possibly need, and not one of them brought me joy. I had spent tens of thousands of dollars, sure that the next purchase would be the one that would make me feel better.
Sometime in March of 2017, a friend came over to help me “organize.” When I saw how much stuff I had with tags still on them, items still in packages, shoes still in boxes, it finally hit me that my behavior was indeed an addiction, and like all addictions, it was not solving anything — it was making things worse. I was no happier, and I was a hell of a lot more worried about money than I’d ever been. I created four piles — giveaway, throw away, put away and return. I quit the crazy shopping cold turkey.
At the end of this January, I read an article about how writer Ann Patchett had given up shopping for a year. I was completely fascinated by this idea. Having found no comfort in my shopping addiction, I wondered if I might find some in abstaining and trying to appreciate the abundance of what I already had.
It’s been two months, and while it’s not fun, it’s not that bad. I buy food, or any necessity of which I run out, but I am not chasing this year’s “it” lipstick that “looks good on everyone,” or the latest mascara that will magically curl, lengthen and strengthen my lashes all at once. I already have at least 20 lipsticks from which I can choose (I almost never remember to put on lipstick anyway), I have plenty of mascara (none has ever performed the magic they promise on TV). I am “shopping my own closet” as I have plenty of things to wear — much of it new with tags.
It’s interesting what you notice when you’re trying to give up something. If people are worried about the Russians influencing us through ads and social media, they should take a good look at retailers! I have unsubscribed, marked as spam, deleted without opening, more offers than I could possibly count. But heaven forbid that I am doing any kind of research online — shoes that I looked at months ago will pop up to taunt me with their new, lower, sale price — and then follow me around from site to site. They are stalking me!
If I don’t respond to the online come ons, they send expensive, beautiful brochures right to my home! It used to make me feel special, part of an elite club. Now, it feels somehow wrong. Don’t they know I’m in recovery? Isn’t there a law against pushing sales on someone who’s trying to quit?
