I hate shoes. However, that hasn’t kept me from constantly buying them. I recently cleaned out my closet, and it turns out I have more shoes than my friend with a shoe fetish. 

Years ago in Amsterdam with friends, all the women went shoe-shopping. I remember thinking, “You’re going to buy shoes in Amsterdam? Are you nuts?” I didn’t go with them. I did what any normal American would do in Amsterdam; I bought something called Pineapple Express and sat at an outdoor cafe, stoned, finally understanding the phrase “the munchies,” and people-watching. 

Now I think what a judgmental sod I was, considering I had just as much of a shoe-buying habit as my friends. 

As I was trying to organize the mess in my closet, I realized two things. Most of the shoes I had worn only once or twice and most of them were variations on the White Sneaker. The ones that were normal-looking shoes anyone would wear. I realized another thing. Most of my purchases have been online. And shoes look great when they’re size 6, or 7, or even 8. But I’m a 10. And when you actually see a shoe in size 10, it’s more like a dinghy or a catboat, or in my case a full-size cruise ship.

The bigger the shoe, the less attractive it becomes. That’s just a plain fact. 

What I find interesting about myself is that I have fallen into that “doing the same thing and expecting a different result being the definition of insanity” stereotype. Because buying on the net, receiving the box, opening the lid, taking out the shiny new pair of whatevers, knowing they will be ugly, and continuing the exact same behavior has me wondering: Why? Why do I think this time will be different?

 As I pulled shirts and skirts and jackets and dresses (yes, I own dresses, but it’s true you have never seen me in one — or in a skirt, for that matter), I have even more reason to question my sanity. It appears I have done the same thing with clothes. They look adorable on the model in size petite (that’s the point of 6-foot-tall models who weigh 37 pounds), but once the item arrives, it’s bigger and longer, with seemingly so much extra fabric, the thing loses its adorableness, and there it hangs, unworn and definitely unloved. 

I just listened to Anne Patchett, one of my favorite writers, read an essay called “My Year of No Shopping.” She made a commitment to not shop for one full year.

While listening, I kept imagining what that would look like if I were to try to do the same thing. It made me ask myself, How much do I scroll? How much do I shop? How much do I buy? How much do I need? But I think the big question is, Why? Why am I buying so much stuff? 

When you ask yourself questions where the answers might lead to some deeply hidden psychological information and you want to keep that information hidden from yourself, it’s tempting to find a quick distraction. And what better distraction than scrolling is there? And shopping is even better. And buying, well, oh my, buying is a bottle of dopamine wrapped in an immediate-gratification bow. Ok, so why all this shopping? Without skipping a beat I answer myself: Because I can. The girl who grew up with the mantra, “Honey we’d love to buy you (pick your item), but we can’t afford it now.” Simple as that. Healing a wound. 

WIth that realization perhaps the wound is healed. And I can move on.

I remember in 2019 Jane Fonda on her fire drill Fridays, as part of her commitment to reduce her carbon footprint, wore her red coat, saying, “This is the last article of clothing I will ever buy, and I will wear recycled items from my own wardrobe.”

I knew if I ever said to Joel, “I’m not going to buy anything for a year,” he would jump for the end of my consumerism joy. 

Because he owns almost nothing, I have always figured I get his allotment. But now after listening to Anne and remembering Jane, I’m kind of rethinking my own shopping addiction. If anyone ever saw my Amazon “order again” history, I’d be mortified. 

I don’t know quite how to get out of this dilemma. First, I could make the one-year commitment à la Anne. And second, I could give Jane a bunch of my white Reebok hightops, and see if she’d let me borrow her red coat.