Leigh and I were talking the other day about how we’ve really done pretty well at not buying Stuff. Since the beginning of the year we’ve really been trying not to indulge in retail therapy, and mostly we’ve been pretty good about it. We’ve had the occasional slip up but no major blowouts, and even when we have decided to buy something new, we’ve been fairly particular and quite restrained.
The trouble it, I miss shopping. Really miss it.
I know that’s pathetic and that half the point of this exercise was to prove to ourselves that worshipping at the altar of commercialism is unfulfilling – but I haven’t really found fulfillment elsewhere, either.
Leigh was never half the shopper I was (am?). She doesn’t understand the joy of wandering around for hours, not looking for anything in particular. Trying on clothes you don’t need and can’t afford. Looking at furniture you have no room for.
Even in our shopping days, she was all for getting what she went for then coming home. She’d always choose the smaller shopping centre over the big one, and really she’d rather be gardening than shopping.
I like having a garden. I like eating food that comes from the garden. But I don’t really like gardening. I prefer The Great Indoors.
I’m choosing not to spend so much time (and money) shopping because I think it’s a better way to live, but I am still waiting for that lightbulb moment when I realise I prefer my days retail-therapy-free.