Want less stuff? Try not buying anything
A huge part of minimalism involves abandoning consumerism, writes Fish Griwkowsky.
Watching footage of more than 1,000 people lining up outside the new outlet mall by the airport Wednesday, I felt weird and, honestly, a sense of pity. Not for them, but for something way bigger that’s apparently missing.
And while I bet there were plenty of fun conversations in that human caterpillar — maybe people even made new friends — they didn’t really go there to be social, some of them in line since midnight.
No, let’s be frank — they were there to fill some need with “stuff.” Always more “stuff.”
And I get it. As a one-time addicted collector and purereflex shopper, the idea of making big sacrifices of time and resources for future junk is nothing I’m sneering at — that would be utter hypocrisy. Hooked on Adidas, I’m a Star Wars junkie Legomaniac who can’t leave Chapters without at least a National Geographic.
Yet so far in the year 2018, I haven’t bought a single possession-oriented consumer item. No books, no clothes, no records. And I have to say: it’s rewired my brain in surprising ways.
You might recall I’ve played the Minimalism Game for a couple of years now — that’s where you get rid of 496 things over a month — salting it with some of Mari Kondo’s hilarious clean-up rituals of thanking unlistening objects for their service. “Thank you Ziggy handcuffs, you made me whole!”
I interviewed Joshua Fields — one of the OG Minimalists — about building up decluttering muscles, and somehow even snagged an international award from Society of Features Journalism for my daily series about it in the Journal.
But what do you know: that piece of paper was another object. And it needed a frame. And guess what else kept happening?
Every time I earned a little space on the counter, storage room or clothes rack during the giveaway month, I Tetrised it up again the next 11.
So when with faltering hope I asked my friend Janis Galloway if she wanted to play the Minimalism Game again in December, she pointed out an article by novelist Ann Patchett in the New York Times: “My Year of No Shopping.”
Galloway explains, “I looked around my apartment and thought I really don’t have enough to get rid of — maybe I was in denial — but I think I was being kind of judgy and asked, ‘Why are you able to do this again?’
“How can we look at the root of the actual problem — which is buying stuff ?”
This is where things got interesting. In Patchett’s article, she lays down parameters, brick by brick: “I wanted a plan that was serious but not so draconian that I would bail out in February, so while I couldn’t buy clothing or speakers, I could buy anything in the grocery store, including flowers. I could buy shampoo and printer cartridges and batteries but only after I’d run out of what I had. I could buy plane tickets and eat out in restaurants. I could buy books because I write books and I coown a bookstore and books are my business.”
To feel the pain, Janis and I decided we’d be way more strict: allowing food, drinks, medicine — consumables, in other words — and anything experiential was fair game, too: going to a hockey game, an Avengers movie … as long as we didn’t bring home a T-shirt. And that was it, nothing else.
She pitched we do this for a year. Terrified, I offered a month. We settled on three, with the pathetic caveat that my wife buy, um, “our household” my favourite film magazine, Little White Lies, every month.
On Jan. 1, we began, calling the three months the Quarter of Denial. Galloway thought: “I’m going to be able to do it. But I struggled. The first month was really easy, the second got harder — and then I cheated. I gave in a week before it was over and bought new sunglasses.” Why did she give up?
“I don’t know. It’s a great question. But,” she adds, “I actually cheated right away, by accident.
“The brand is called Thinx,” she explains, “they’re period panties — the purpose of them is to create no-waste periods. Great company, amazing idea — but I didn’t need to buy them.”
Without even thinking about it, she clicked a pair her way online. “And I didn’t even realize I had bought them till the next day. I think there’s something interesting that goes on in your head when you’re online — it almost doesn’t even feel like you’re buying something.”
Even mentioning this story has got me yelled at repeatedly as some sort of menstruation shaming swamp boar, but I took Galloway’s word that this didn’t fit in her idea of “exactly necessary,” for which we were both aiming.
“I failed,” she laughs. “I had a drawer full of tampons.”
As president of PR firm Publicity Room, she works with Fashion Revolution — which examines the social impact of our belief in near-disposable clothing. “We’re not saying, ‘Get rid of every piece of fashion you have — throw it out!’ We’re saying, ‘Wear it and use it because someone made it.’”
Someone is bound to think these ideas are anti-capitalism, even anti-social — we’re programmed to think that way. Aside from a decades-long advertising conspiracy to make us feel like we’re not good enough unless we buy any number of products, I can certainly speak to the “antisocial” accusation with a couple of examples.
First off, since January, I’ve made my wife’s life harder: “Can you go to the mall and pick up … oh right. Your ‘thing.’” This is not to accuse her of anything, she’s the best — but try this exercise, and you’re suddenly a puzzle piece that doesn’t fit into the modern world. I even argued against buying Drano at one point during what I’ll just refer to as the ‘Pickle Incident.’
My friend and I also used to hit Record Collector’s Paradise weekly. I still didn’t mind going and looking, and he even seemed to appreciate when I’d find a rare record and hand it to him instead. But, somehow, the invites trickled off.
Then there are my friends who own retail spaces, one of whom noted, with a cackle, “You’re killing me!”
Also, of course, there was the initial shame when I told my dad I was going to give not buying anything frivolous a shot. “Sounds like my childhood.”
Well, yeah — I’ve been literally homeless and jobless, too, and one of the initial reasons I felt so little existential angst doing this was it just reminded me of not having enough money. You get creative, start sewing your toeturtling socks, borrowing things. And I cannot for the life of me think there’s anything wrong with experiencing this, if you’re lucky enough to not usually have to.
Galloway noted the experience had a similar effect on her — she started regularly going to the library again. “I love the library!
“My shopping behaviours have already changed a lot. Why do we shop so much? A), it feels good — there’s a dopamine kick when you buy something new. The sunglasses, I could’ve gone to Goodwill — or borrowed some from my best friend.
“The fact you cannot even think about buying something is interesting to me. We live in a culture of so much privilege that I can use shopping as a leisurely activity.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about that.”
After Janis did the experiment for three months, I did it for another month, just to see if it would eventually hurt — I now seem to be into month five, definitely cooking more and figuring out how to sew up my worn clothes.
If you think you’re up to the challenge setting your own rules, I can’t recommend it enough.
I think there’s something interesting that goes on in your head when you’re online — it almost doesn’t even feel like you’re buying something.