GET THRIFTY
How thrifting, swapping and trading saved a shopping fiend’s bank account — and style
When I turned 19, I received my share of my late mother’s estate and I knew exactly how I wanted to squander my inheritance: on clothes. Lots and lots of clothes.
I was in my second year of university, living on a bunnycovered campus in a cosy seaside town on the West Coast. These decidedly unchic environs made meeting the taste level set by my beloved fashion magazines and ’80s movies a struggle. Looking the part would help me live the part, I figured, so off I marched to the mall, my poor Visa unaware that it was destined to be ground into a translucent nub under the force of my shopping habit.
Spending thousands of dollars on clothes while clueless about investment dressing was bad enough, but I was also hemorrhaging cash during the 2000s, arguably the worst fashion decade of the past 100 years. Inspired by Carrie Bradshaw’s cavalier styling, I blew gobs of money on truly horrific ensembles that prominently featured candy-coloured V-neck tees, bejewelled and flower-decked tops and pastel corduroy blazers. Plus an actual fedora.
After I graduated, I moved to Toronto, where my shopping urges subsided somewhat, thanks to a busy schedule covering the fashion beat for a city blog. A new friend, Lindsay, was an avid thrifter and she suggested I join her on Value Village runs. It was there that I learned the pleasure of foraging for treasure. The thrill of buying a trendy item at the mall felt cheap and faded quick. Emerging from the thrift store with a Versaceesque gold-embroidered ’90s LBD or a dainty textured taupe silk top for $5 felt like a real triumph. These pieces had history.
Then Lindsay invited me to a clothing swap thrown by a friend. There, piled in the centre of the room, was a mountain of clothes — including several bright strata of ’70s print day dresses. Despite the variety of body sizes present in the room, everyone magically found a few pieces that worked perfectly for them. For a person heavily indoctrinated with the “reduce, reuse, recycle” mantra of the eco-mad early ’90s, this was my jam.
I started throwing my own clothing swaps. I scored lovelies like a pink fuzzy sweater studded with pearls and designer jeans in exchange for … nothing. (Bonus: the leftover clothes were donated to charity.) Gathering a group of women in a room created a warmth and camaraderie; it felt like community. We laughed at our fashion faux pas, offered advice on which trousers or blouses might work for this booty or those boobs, and tearfully surrendered cherished items — such as my red leather pencil skirt: sob! — to others so that it may ride again.
By the time I had become a senior editor at a fashion magazine, I had, ironically, pretty much stopped shopping altogether, subsisting on old vintage finds, swap scores and free stuff from work. When I did shop, I enjoyed playing patron to Canadian designers who produced their pieces here. I spent my money in boutiques that stocked independent labels. I diverted my fun budget from acquiring clothes toward experiences like travel. By giving up shopping as an activity, I was able to enjoy fashion more. And somehow, I looked better instead of worse.
After years of acquiring quirky vintage statement pieces, though, I wanted some fresh staples. I’d become so used to not purchasing stuff that it was hard to actually plunk down the cash, but there was another option.
I had been using the Bunz app to trade all kinds of stuff, from plants to vintage oil paintings, but the app was packed with fashion, too. Here was the perfect solution to better curating my closet: I could trade the objects and clothes I didn’t want for the clothes I needed, freeing up space in my apartment — and budget.