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Why I Don’t Shop for Four Months of the Year

Materialism is out, minimalism is in

My January started with a lot of no. No to the temptingly discounted floral and ruffled dress by one of my favourite labels, Preen. No to the pleated peach vintage trousers spotted on a brief sojourn to Brooklyn. No to the nth pair of pre-loved Wrangler jeans. From now until the end of April, I’m on a self-imposed clothing-buying ban.

I’m hardly alone in this mission. The term “no-buy” or its slightly less strict sibling, “low-buy,” are on the rise. This voluntary, self-regulated shopping detox is the natural reaction to years of rabid overconsumption. On YouTube no-buy testimonials and guides delivered by reformed shopaholics are as common as the hauls they are meant to curb. There’s a virtuous status to be found in restriction and self-denial. Materialism is out, minimalism is in. And what better time to start than January, when the desire for a righteous reset comes on like a spasm.

Here’s where I brag that I was a no-buy early adopter. My first ban, five years ago, came after a particularly spendy December that culminated in the purchase of an absurd pair of pants. They were by Marques’Almeida, bought on sale and in the wrong size. They looked like they were cut from the Mad Hatter’s wallpaper, and—worst of all—not refundable. The shame of that buy pierced right through me, and I’ve made my four-month ban an annual tradition ever since.

My four sartorial dry months serve as palate cleanser, a money saver and a necessary pause button on fashion’s never-ending hype cycle.

As someone who curates, examines and writes about clothes as a job, the temptation to shop is extra high. It doesn’t help that I’m often privy to sneak previews of collections before they even hit stores or that I have a full closet at my parents’ house that I lovingly refer to as my archive. I just love clothes. Each morning, I aim to dress with ambition and purpose. I’ll never be a capsule-wardrobe evangelist; Everlane’s sexless basics don’t interest me. I love the way a vintage Harris tweed blazer gets better with each wear, the swishy flutter of a silk skirt, the heard-’round-the-corner stomp of a cowboy boot. But even I need a reset every once in a while. And so does my poor overstuffed walk-in.

For many no-buyers, fast fashion is usually the first problematic indulgence to be reined in. I won’t pretend that I haven’t been tempted by the ephemeral thrill of a Zara end-of-season sale. But as someone who does a fair bit of sustainable fashion writing, fast fashion lost its appeal long ago. Instead, my four sartorial dry months serve as palate cleanser, a money saver and a necessary pause button on fashion’s never-ending hype cycle.

The first few weeks are always the hardest. As I write this, sale season is upon us. My favourite designer sites are boasting 70 per cent discounts (see the aforementioned Preen dress) and that little voice pipes up: “No one will know, just buy it!” A hot panic comes over me as I click Add to Cart. I sometimes go as far as putting in my credit card number before closing the tab in a huff. Dramatic? Oh, yes.

Then, as the weeks wear on, a Zen-like calm comes over me. I’m beyond stuff, living freely as if in a state of Soviet-era austerity. My new mantra: Wear what’s there.

Still, I’m not immune to the siren call of newness. But I’ve developed a coping strategy. If, say, a pair of block-heeled loafers catches my attention, instead of adding to a cart, I add them to a wish list on my phone, telling myself that I can always buy them later—a reward. Once filed away, I hardly ever come back to these pieces, let alone buy them once the ban lifts. That’s the thing about shopping: The joy is almost always in the wanting.

That’s not to say that not shopping for a third of the year is an impressive feat. It’s actually a kind of privilege in itself. But each April, as the end of my no-shop draws near, I feel a quiet contentment with myself. Most years, it usually takes me a few weeks to come around to the idea of spending money on clothes again. Maybe that’s because these months of no were actually months of yes. Yes to rediscovery. Yes to loving what I already own. Yes to less.

 

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