i have an amazon problem
on binge-buying
I have an Amazon problem. Not, like, a problem with the rainforest (though I do have strong opinions about that, too).
No, I have a shopping problem.
I really, really, really, really like stuff.
Maybe that’s the best way to put it.
I like nice things, silly things, doodads that promise to make my life better. I like books filling every nook and cranny of my shelves, with plants and candles and knick knacks layered in front of them. I like having piles of clothes to choose from, new hair accessories, and fresh jewelry. I have a drawer full of notebooks I’ve never even opened and pens in mile-wide piles. I have six different ways to record audio files and eight sets of headphones and art supplies rattling in drawers like loose teeth.
I have so much stuff.
Most of the time, I love it. I could use a different brand of colored pencil every day for a week, if I want. I could wear a different outfit every day for half a year without repeating things (if my jeans fit, but that’s neither here nor there). I could read until my eyes bleed and still have books on the shelf, beckoning, beckoning.
Oh the variety! It titillates, tickles me silly.
Until it doesn’t.
I killed most of my social media accounts a couple of years back. It wasn’t just the amount of time I spent on the apps that made me feel icky--woozy from sessions of scrolling, like I had my blood drawn and declined the free snack afterward.
No, it was the constant comparisons I was drawing between the curated bobbleheads on the screen and my life, my home, my ideas of a good time. I never felt like I was enough.
So I told socials to get stuffed.
For a while, it was great. I binge-read like the Floridians were coming for my paperbacks. I journaled and went for long walks. Listened to innumerable podcasts.
But even without the constant advertising popping up between instagram posts, my phone found a way to fill the free time. Before long, when I was tired or had a break between meetings, I found myself on Target, Amazon, Mercari. Browsing browsing browsing.
Do I need anything?
No, I tell myself, determined to be firm.
Ooh, but I forgot, I don’t like my keyboard that much. I’m tired of the clicky-klacky. And I scroll and scroll, wearing the screen cover on my phone thin where my right thumb fits. I work from home, I tell myself. I save so much money on gas! I need it. Click! Bought it. Refurbished, that makes me feel better. And it’ll be here tomorrow!
The box shows up and I catch myself hiding the packaging from my husband. Time to break that baby down, do our civic duty. Recycling--gosh, it’s so important. And a tidy house is a happy house!
“What’s that super long box in the recycling bin, babe?”
Caught again.
Why do I feel so guilty?
Well, the volume, for one thing. If I didn’t have such impeccable taste, getting rid of these little gems I’ve found online and in my “low-impact retail therapy” sessions at the thrift store wouldn't be so hard. Can you believe the things people give away?
The other reason?
I wish I was a minimalist.
God, there, I said it.
I wish I was the kind of person whose home looked like a really nice airbnb. The kind where people walk in and think, “Can you believe people live here? My goodness, it’s so tidy! They only have, like, six books. I bet they’ve actually read them!”
I want to walk into my closet and see my four pairs of pants, six shirts, and three pairs of shoes and know exactly what to wear every morning. The clothes are all on hangers--they’re breathily spaced across my closet, like dudes at the urinals in a locker room. Decisions? Don’t need ‘em. Steve Jobs? He’s got nothing on me.
I crave the kind of Scandinavian workspace that includes a single laptop perched on a perfectly clean birch desk with nary a coffee ring in sight. Pencils? Paper? Ick, don’t need those. I keep my ideas in meticulously curated mood boards and impeccable files of drafts undone. Why would I bother with paper?
Inspired by my visions, I Marie-Kondo the fuck out of the place.
Clothes? Get outta here. Books? I mean, I can get rid of the ones I’ve read and probably won’t read again. That’s a great start. Wow, I am killing it. Art supplies? Ah gosh, I don’t really use these pencils and I don’t like them that much anyway. But the rest of it? Oh no, watercolors never go bad, and I love those goofy dangly earrings I got in Costa Rica...
I look around and the closet looks exactly the same, except my clothes are on hangers. The timbers of my bookshelves are still softly screaming. My desk has a spot for a notebook on top of it, now (shit, I forgot, I’m not supposed to need that).
It’s nice! And it lasts for a few days, my commitment to stufflessness.
I don’t browse Amazon. I pass the thrift store with my fingers crossed in front of me like I’m warding off vampires. Thankfully there’s not a great bookstore in town, anyway, I tell myself.
But then I discover SUPER-GRANULATING WATERCOLORS? Did you know such a thing graced planet Earth? Buy, buy, buy.
I know. I know! It’s okay to have things.
I shouldn’t beat myself up for spending my hard-earned cash on things that make me happy. Plus, art supplies never go bad. Same with gadgets, books, paper, pens. It’s like by buying the tools I feel like I’m halfway to being an actual artist.
Will I ever be an actual artist? And writers have notebooks, right? I’m faking it until I make it, but the pens and paper maketh not the book.
What am I trying to say?
Life is inherently consumerist. I am no ascetic, as much as I admire the idea. And I’m clearly no minimalist. But I can’t quite give it all up and lean into my maximalist tendencies, because sometimes it all feels so hollow, the stuff.
An example: When the box arrives and I open it and realize, I never would have bought this if I’d touched it in the store. Or when I’m left with the aftermath of my online purchasing habits: the delivery driver that made an extra stop to drop off; a parcel the size of a paperback; the fact that my dog has been Pavlov-ed into sprinting in my direction when I open a cardboard box because she so loves to pop the bubble wrap; or the drop in my stomach when I open my desk drawer and see all the pens I forgot I had.
Ah, I think I figured it out.
I feel like a captive to the dopamine cask in my brain that’s tapped when I hit “buy.” I do not want to feel like my purchases are out of my control. I don’t want to be unpleasantly surprised when I check my bank statements. I want to be aware of the stuff I have, content with my possessions instead of living in a constant state of searching.
Buying new things won’t scratch the itch I’m feeling. But using the things I have? That definitely will. When I sit down and play with the watercolors, wreck the pretty paper, write in the journals--that does it for me. But it’s harder than sitting on the couch with the Amazon app suggesting fun things for me to buy. It means I have to look at all the whackadoo ideas in my pretty little head and spill them out. Which sucks, cause it’s difficult.
But it’s worth it, isn’t it?
Many thanks to Jude Klinger, Russell Smith, Felicity Brand, Amna Faiq Ali, and Katerina Bohle Carbonell for their feedback on this piece. Foster folks always come through!
Hey DJ! :) Are you still on Discord? I realized that after Circle went away, this is the only place I know of to touch base with you.
Such beautiful writing DJ. Loved this. And can relate, hard!