ONLINE ONLY: Not Buying It

January 11, 2012

Reading time min

Twenty years ago, when Tim and I married two days after college graduation, we intended to hop on the professional fast track, live in increasing luxury and retire by 40. We had a few notions of contributing to the greater good, but in the grand consumer parade of hip clothes, sports cars and electronic toys that floated through our minds, altruism was a tiny baton-twirler sulking on the sidelines.

So what would motivate us—three daughters and years of intense accumulation later—to stop purchasing things for an entire year? In a word: happiness.

Try as we might, Tim, ’88, MBA ’92, and I could no longer ignore the apparent bait-and-switch that had turned our good life into the “goods” life. Afternoons running barefoot through the grass had been replaced by a constant shuffle to find consumer products and figure out how to afford them, buy them, maintain them and then, inevitably, store them. What had seemed desirable when we were younger was now draining our energy and our assets.

So in 2003, the cumulative effect of want-er lust led our family of five to take a vow. What would happen if for 12 months we refused to give in to our cravings and purchased only edibles or depletables (things we used up—such as shampoo or gasoline)?

Imbued with a surprising sense of freedom, each family member faced only minimal struggles in the experiment. Our 10-year-old's outgrown tennis shoes soon were replaced with an extra pair of mine. When the 7-year-old wanted a new journal, she found several untouched still on her shelf, and our 4-year-old figured out how to print out “birthday gift certificates” for activities with her friends. Vacuum bags and cotton balls posed a problem until we learned to shake out and re-staple the vacuum bag and to find fresh cotton in vitamin jars.

Bolstered by an increasing awareness of how much we already possessed, our shopping hiatus allowed us to rethink calcified assumptions. When winter loomed, we wondered how Father Christmas could work his magic without a mall. Slowly, I began to notice the generous flow of objects that came into our lives as presents from friends or neighbors or as thank-you gifts for work we had done. Instead of instantly using these up, Tim and I tucked them away for Christmas Eve. In place of stress-filled shopping trips, the holidays found us lingering over hot cider with the new neighbors.

After 12 months of rich experiences (and the joy of surprises such as the shocked look on our eldest daughter's face when the shopping hiatus did not prevent Christmas from coming), there was no turning back. While we resumed the occasional purchase—new dress socks or replacement vacuum bags—we had become so enamored of the calmer life that we kept our spending minimal and focused on other pleasures.

Five years later, the life that has blossomed from our experimental year isn't particularly shiny. Others might not consider our 1930s house with its mossy roof and chemical-free lawn picture perfect. Nor is this life always carefree. When my job changed from an attorney to writer and Tim's from executive to environmental business consultant, we joked about being downwardly mobile. But loving our work, having afternoon walks with our kids and befriending an international mix of guests at our weekly community dinner, we feel that we've found a better bargain—and are finally getting our money's worth.


KYM CROFT MILLER, '88, is a writer in Portland, Ore. Her work recently was included in Knowing Pains: Women on Love, Sex and Work in Our 40s (WingSpan Press).

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