In just nine hours—a little over half the standard workday, so temporal perception is entirely up to you—the Internet will return to its regularly scheduled programming. The overwhelm of “BEST AMAZON PRIME DAY DEALS” listicles and slideshows will have concluded; the flux of promotional emails from the non-Amazons of the world will have subsided (if just for a few hours); and the next few days will be punctuated by text messages from your favorite e-tailer.
Ding! “SHIPPED: Your Amazon package with ….”
Ding! “ARRIVING TODAY: Your Amazon package with…”
Ding ding ding! Three delivery confirmations in a row and a photo of your front door, starring three brown boxes. You’re either ridden with guilt at the aftermath, or giddy at the prospect of filming an unboxing for Instagram.
I’m no fortune-teller; I’ve been in the same place and therefore pass no judgment—but I do want to talk about consumption, full stop. In a sea of Prime Day round-ups, this post will either come as a relief or render itself completely useless. (Or, more realistically, this article won’t even matter—because ABC is frequented by no one, not even its sole writer.) I write this not in rebellion of July’s Cyber Monday equivalent or to take a stand against material consumption. I love things. I love buying things. I love surrounding myself with things collected and thoughtfully acquired, each serving as a token or talisman of sorts.
But in just one year alone I successfully accumulated too many things, enough to cause not one, but both closet rods to rip out the wall from the weight. Where even after asking Dad to affix them with reinforcements, I continued to max out until I was all but forced to purchase three free-standing Ikea racks to accommodate my burgeoning wardrobe and alleviate my poor closet.
By no means am I minimalist, nor do I aspire to be one—but even as a self-proclaimed hedonist, I’ve gone too far.
I write this, not because Amazon Prime Day posts made me reflect on our collective shopping habits, but because of everything else happening in the world that isn’t getting prime time (pun purposefully intended) because of the sale bonanza. Because I’m ashamed of my credit card bills; because I was raised by frugal immigrant parents. Because I harbor such guilt for having and wanting more when families are torn apart or fighting to get through each day. Because I’m so clearly filling a void with things that make me want to be something or somewhere else—but also because I’m slowly questioning why I’ve purchased the things I did.
Have I bought X out of my own volition, or is it because the Instagram algorithm has slipped into my subconscious and convinced me into believing I needed X? And Y? Which by the communicative property, meant I also needed Z?
So many questions, none of which are revolutionary or truthfully, my own.
I write this without conclusive solutions, all just to say that after this weekend, I’m putting myself on a shopping ban. Exceptions include spending on gas, groceries, acai bowls, Veganized/Good Karma/Healthy Garden trips, or The Line by K launches because I’m not a heathen—but aside from the aforementioned, no pennies shall be shelled out for the next month, minimum.
Join me if you will. I might even report back with findings along the way and some sort of Eureka! conclusion just to flex my journalism degree. Who knows. Until then, hold me accountable. Or don’t.
Consume wisely. Goods, news, and otherwise.
. . .
xx
{image via ITG, from a post that actually highlights the best beauty deals}
Your turn. Thoughts?