My horoscope, which is never wrong, gives me this bit of advice:
Shopping is dangerous for you right now. It won’t cause any physical harm, but you are seriously at risk of buyer’s regret. Have a sensible friend or coworker tag along to keep you grounded.
It’s not even the day after an early Thanksgiving. And then also I hate shopping, so there should be no risk of impulse buying, definitely not to the extent that I would need a chaperone. But as I type this post, the open windows beneath it picture shopping carts full of ink at Levenger; knives at Chef’s Catalog; spices at Penzey’s; a MacBook Pro at Apple; clothes at Ann Taylor, J. Crew, and J. Jill; squashy chairs at Overstock; and books at Better World, eCampus, and Amazon. All just clicks away. Exactly 0% of these contents would be gifts. Yet I’m window-shopping, and this inexplicable itch to buy stuff—well, it scares me. With the exception of the books, I don’t need any of this crap. With the exception of books, I haven’t bought anything of this sort since I moved here.
Sure, one reason for this needless shopping is procrastination, but when I think of it, I’ve been depriving myself for a long time. After moving every summer, I grew pretty used to preparing for cash-flow crises. Before that, there was of course the romantic penury of grad school. When I finally got the opportunity to stay put—an opportunity that coincided with a reasonably grownup salary—I continued to live like a pauper, putting nearly the maximum into my retirement account and maintaining Sallie Mae in the style to which she has become accustomed. With the exception of the cashmere sweater my parents gave me for Christmas last year, I haven’t acquired even a scrap of clothing (no, not even underwear).
This year, the merit raise I knew I had coming turned out to be some three times what I was expecting. I want to celebrate, but I’ve forgotten how. What I do know is that consumerism is not celebration. Perhaps I am reacting against the holiday that has evolved into a celebration of consumption, followed by consumerism. At the last minute, I’ve decided to spend Thanksgiving alone, cooking a fabulous dinner and eating it however I please while polishing an article to send off and, as ever usual, grading. I’ve traveled enough this month and will not be visiting family, so when I spend the morning yammering on the phone to them, I will almost honestly be able to say how much I miss them. As for my one invitation in town, I phoned my regrets in last week. The gracious host-I-hardly-know insists I’m still welcome, and since the gathering will be JPU-free, my plans might change, but I doubt they will.
Meanwhile, I’m closing my windows. If the stuff in their virtual shopping carts and bags is still there on Friday, then maybe it will be mine. Then again, I may have forgotten it, having (sotto voce here) shuffled off to the mall while still stuffed with pumpkin pie prepared by someone else. Maybe. Possibility: there’s another thing to be grateful for.
