On Depop, you can buy an upcharged 1950s Harley Davidson jacket someone found lurking in the back of their grandfather’s closet.
On Craigslist, you can sell your soul.
On Amazon, you can order a purple chainsaw, to be delivered to your doorstep before tomorrow’s harvest moon.
On TikTok, you can peruse innumerable clips about how to morph into an airbrushed god: Simply purchase a ‘Calm Your Tits’ boob mask, a container of snail mucin, or a dash of glittering eyeshadow mined by child laborers overseas, #sponsored!
Don’t get me wrong: I’ve scrolled through Instacart’s never-ending stream of patterned socks stitched in Bangladesh. I’ve drooled (metaphorically speaking) while sifting through TJ Maxx’s sale bins, plugged my credit card number into an obscure website advertising woolen slippers from Australia. It’s hard to ignore the pull of material goods in a global economy fueled by consumerism.
But pressing “Add To Cart” will only satiate your yearning temporarily, causing your sense of self-assurance to become reliant on an increasingly expensive version of bigger/better/best. It’s a commodification of the mind: I already own a knit hat, so why did I feel the need to scroll through Etsy for over an hour yesterday, gazing longingly at knit caps?
It’s not a hard answer: Cultivating a sense of self is enjoyable in the same way cultivating a Twitter persona is enjoyable. It makes us feel valued, quirky, authentic. Another piece of knitwear isn’t going to improve my life, but it might make my head look cool.
During the rise of consumerism in the early 20th century, Arthur Mormand’s 1920s comic strip Keeping Up With the Joneses depicted the McGinis family. Envious of their neighbors, they fruitlessly attempted to climb up the social strata by making their clothes, their yard, as well as their lives appear aesthetically pleasing.
My current hat keeps my ears cozy, but a hat that I saw someone else at The Steps wearing made them look like they were a butch shepherd about to embark on a trek through mountainous regions… I want a hat like that.
But the endless pursuit of The Best Hat won’t lead anywhere, except into an internet spiral of clothing websites. You find one thing you like and 47 ads cram your Facebook feed, goading you to find something even more uniquely you.
It’s time to stop keeping up with the Joneses.
Originating in Canada, Buy Nothing Day encourages consumers to steer clear of Black Friday sales, sacrificing shopping sprees as a way to ‘celebrate’ the dangers of overconsumption. Some people cut up credit cards, steer empty shopping carts through a mall’s circuitous hallways, or simply parade through the streets toting signs with pithy slogans like: “Consumerism is the corruption of the American Soul.”
Aside from the humanitarian problems resulting from opening your pocketbook, curating an aesthetic comes at a real cost to the planet — remember the fires that desecrated Australia just two years ago, for instance. I’m not saying my Australian slipper purchase caused climate change, but it’s part of a larger culture that did.
Buy Nothing Day is, at its core, a surface-level version of activism. Awesome! We’re abstaining from camping out in front of Lowe’s in order to get the best deal on the sparkliest chandelier. But what about every other day of the year? Not purchasing a designer belt on November 26th makes about as much difference as crying in an ocean. The tide won’t change because you wept a little.
If our economy is that unnamable and unknowable ocean, rising and falling and consuming you whole, then the corporations are the moon. They control the tide from afar, and they also control you.
A better way to give the middle finger to corporations is to buy less not just on the day after Thanksgiving, but every day. If you don’t want the tides to impact you, get out of the ocean. Delete the eBay app from your phone. Stop trying to be the Joneses. Their pretty yards and attractive hats don’t make their lives any more fulfilling than yours.
No, clicking the ‘x’ on facebook ads isn’t going to stem the tide (ha!) of climate change, but cultural shifts happen gradually. Now, when I look in the mirror at my knit hat, I think good enough for me.