Confessions of a consumerist
A frequent conundrum for the modern day semi adult is whether to spend or save. Dinners (not for you, Melbourne), dalliances and donning the latest garments off the racks of Instagram’s elite allows us to justify haemorrhaging the cash we’re trying to stash away. But at what darker cost?
I am stubbornly savings-averse. I love the dopamine rush of a purchase and the tactile indulgence of simply nursing something coveted, new and tangible. A doorstep delivery in isolation acts as a touchpoint through which discussion can be had and personal style can be articulated virtually amongst friends, colleagues and social media’s onlookers. In the throes of lockdown 2.0, consumption is the gateway through which I can bring something from the outside world in, just to marvel for a moment.
Tragically, I know the more I buy, the more validated I feel. This is by no means limited to sartorial splurging. It extends far beyond the realm of fashion. I am instantly gratified by artisan-crafted, sultana-studded croissants and impeccably brewed large soy lattes. I romanticise things like going physically into bookstores and feeling a sense of community, continuity and society that crescendos with a purchase before I leave, almost as a way of executing good manners. I enjoy the prospect of any outing or online acquisition that brings me instantaneous felicity.
Some mornings, I wake up with the desire to purchase more books to further my vocabulary and worldliness. This will allow me to write with conviction and insight. On other days, if some neon orange mules could elevate my monochromatic wardrobe in the event of an important work meeting or date in the (very) distant future, I will oblige by ordering them online. When they arrive at my door, I experience a momentary high, maybe some showy externalisation of my new arrivals via social media and then the inevitable consideration of what to consume next. It swiftly seems that crushingly, they do not fit, nor do they support my fragile ankles or walking more than five metres. The dream is dismantled, and I am onto the next purchase that may promote a better-dressed and better-in-every-way future-self. It’s all very insatiable, and thus I won’t be affording a house deposit any century soon.
This year, a large portion of us have admitted to shopping online more than ever before. When we’re bored and deflated, it is sometimes the only form of palpable reprieve available. It feels as if we are actively ‘improving’ our lives through the conduit of currency. I purchased an $82 Anamorphine candle from Overose last week. Upon unearthing it from a boujee outer shell and surrendering to the all-sensory massage of its Jardin de Tuileries inspired fragrance, I felt significantly better about my life. I was enveloped in its richness. It now holds prime real estate on my nightstand and will most-likely never be struck with a match for I refuse to see its demise. I may entertain the idea of gutting its waxy remnants and immortalising that weighty, rose-hued carcass into a vessel to display other items of beauty ephemera in a different context. Yes, I say soothingly to myself, that would look nice in a bathroom mirror selfie. That would perpetuate the narrative I am forging for myself.
I struggle to evade my unrelenting desire for ‘more’. Nothing is ever enough. I’m severely attention-deficit and obnoxiously ambitious, so this seems to dangerously dovetail into my spending habits. It is not the transaction, but the moreish nature of that desperate race. It is a race for an elusive finish line of superficial contentment that only keeps moving further and further and will always be just out of reach. Can money buy happiness? I think it can, fleetingly. But money can’t buy purpose, acceptance or deep self-satisfaction. When you are buying a fancy candle, what are you really trying to haul?
Bri Lee’s ever-acclaimed Beauty is a pocket-sized page-turner. I finished it a few nights back despite purchasing it over twelve months ago. She speaks to the addictive nature of “bettering” ourselves, and a “hunger for improvement” that is almost illicit in its compulsion. One dog-eared page describes that utopic feeling of stepping foot into Mecca Cosmetica. Bri documents the shitty-but-shiny feeling of sauntering through those gilded doors if you are naked-faced and underdressed. You are there to peruse and purchase and improve.
“For whom did I want to be beautiful?”, she says. “For Mecca itself, perhaps? To look better each time I went in, to be one of its people?”. Bri’s words prick to the touch with their precision. “We genuinely think we will be happier if we look better”, she says. In imagining and indulging the aspirational self, “we are better at work, better in our relationships, better at sex, and basically better at everything in life.” She laments how we are so irreversibly programmed to think that the harder we work and the more money we make and the more time we spend paypassing in Mecca, the more beautiful we grow. Bri puts this whole behemoth of a modern millennial’s self-optimising spending addiction into such scathingly truthful yet sadly sympathetic terms. She holds a mirror to our flaws, exposing the ugliness in what we tragically convince ourselves to be the attainment of ‘beauty’ itself through commodities. It jolted me into an uneasy episode of introspection.
While, at times, it certainly feels like happiness is transactory, I think it’s important to consider where and how we distribute our spending in a 2020 society. It can be disheartening and debilitating when your efforts to save are upended by your desperation to belong to something, learn stuff and look a certain way. It can also lead to an overwhelming, overindulged, sickly-sweet sense of guilt. After what feels like a lifetime of making flippant purchases in isolation, I’m actively trying (but still frequently failing) to put the below practices in place. If you are out for consumption retribution, feel free to take from these what you will.
Audit your inbox.
Deleting an onslaught of electronic direct marketing every morning is a reflexive routine washed down with an AM coffee for most millennials. But while archiving the majority, I find myself reeled in occasionally by a percentage discount, click-baity subject line or a sale from a luxury brand that leaves the door for purchase just slightly ajar. Next minute, I’m on the Manning Cartell website contemplating where I can wear a maxi, one-shoulder, bubblegum pink knit dress while in lockdown. The answer is: nowhere. I’ve finally decluttered my inbox by unsubscribing from a few dozen mailing lists and it feels cathartic. I’ve noticed my late-night scrolling has decreased tenfold.
Audit your Instagram following, too.
It’s hard to look away from the aspirational It Girl on Instagram. You love watching their daily lives unfold via stories spliced with dovewhite sneaker unboxings and effortless, nonchalant nylon prada bag sporting. But how many of these items have been gifted? How different is your state of reality to theirs right now? How much do you actually want these physical items versus your desire to emulate a certain lifestyle? Culling your Instagram following with a discerning eye for what accounts make you feel ‘less than’ or in a constantly hot state of envy will limit your list of wants. Think about following with intention and consideration. Stay privy to the accounts that stir something more than just longing and lust inside of you.
Purchase with purpose.
This obviously all needs to be prefaced with the disclaimer that from groceries to clothing, having choice in spending is a huge luxury and privilege. It’s a first world problem at its finest. But if you’re really in the mood to spend on quality or in the market for something specific, consider the nature of where your money goes in a 2020 context. The power of supporting local business is prolific right now. Take into account where you’re ordering from, the story of the brand you are bolstering, the narration through which that brand sells its products to you and the story you are validating. If a brand’s contention is to perpetuate archaic gender norms or homogenise beauty or monetise wellness, this transaction might not be right for you.
Find joy in life’s other transactions.
This may sound obvious and trite, but it’s an old adage for a reason: some of the best things in life are free. Going for an hour-long walk or calling a friend or making a coffee at home or doing a deep dive into your wardrobe and revisiting pieces of clothing from a bygone era can feel more rewarding than filling your life up with more stuff. Sometimes, doing a mindful stocktake on what we possess (whether it be a nice dress or a Nespresso machine) can quiet the cravings for an attainment of ‘more’. Really slowing down to relish the small and gratuitous things or instilling new routines (i.e. writing a few things you're grateful for each morning, trying to run 5km, rekindling a friendship) can help the purchase pangs dissipate. If you’re absolutely hankering for the thrill of a transaction, perhaps a boutique wine delivery service for a girlfriend or some flowers for a family member feeling a little sombre can bring you a way larger amount of satisfaction than a fleeting treat for yourself.
Words — Genevieve Phelan
