Things beget things

This April, I was swept up by the shopping-ban trend. To my own surprise, I haven’t bought a single piece of clothing or a pair of shoes for four months.

Honestly, I never thought a shopping ban was meant for someone like me.

Then I looked at my spending history.

After nearly three decades in the United States, I realized that I had quietly adopted the American creed: I shop, therefore I live.

The awakening came when I reviewed my purchases at Sierra, the outdoor discount retailer.

Ever since my first winter in Colorado, I had been placing Sierra orders almost every month. The magic number was $89—the minimum purchase for free shipping. Sierra is famous for its bargains if you know when to shop. Brand-name waterproof jackets, hiking pants, fleece pullovers—sometimes at one-tenth of their original prices.

Who could resist?

After all, I live in the windy foothills of the Rocky Mountains, where outdoor gear feels less like a luxury than a necessity.

Or so I told myself.

When I checked my purchase history, I discovered that I had spent more than $2,000 on Sierra.com alone. That didn’t even include the little things I inevitably picked up whenever I stopped by the brick-and-mortar store to return an online purchase.

Meanwhile, my oversized walk-in closet had slowly become too small. Clothes that once fit comfortably inside now spill into vacuum storage bags tucked away in the basement and the spare bedroom closet.

It struck me that I had crossed an invisible line.

More was no longer better.

The things I owned had begun to own me.

Looking back, I realized this wasn’t the first time I had become obsessed with shopping. Only the object of my obsession had changed.

When I bought an electric bike in 2020 during the pandemic, I spent months buying cycling jerseys, rain jacket, helmets, pannier bags, bells, lights, and every accessory that promised to improve the experience.

Before that, soon after moving back to the United States from Hong Kong, I discovered the Japanese brand Uniqlo and went through a Uniqlo phase.

The funny thing is that during the entire three years I lived in Hong Kong, I hardly bought any clothes or shoes. I needed no shopping ban to stop shopping. How so? After all, every day,  I walked through at least two shopping malls built above subway stations. Stores surrounded me everywhere I went, yet I felt almost completely immune to shopping.

Why?

• The first reason was simple: everything felt expensive compared with the discounts I had grown accustomed to in America.
• The second reason was space. Apartments in Hong Kong are small, and every square foot matters. There is little temptation to accumulate things when you have nowhere to put them.
• The third reason was climate. Living in a subtropical city means you don’t need a closet full of winter jackets.

Even grocery shopping was different. Instead of supermarket chains, I bought fresh vegetables, fish, and meat from neighborhood wet markets where everything is cheaper and fresher than supermarket chain stores.

Eating out was also remarkably affordable. The university where I worked offered everything from inexpensive fusion lunches to traditional Cantonese restaurants. Because cooking wasn’t an everyday necessity, I had far more free time than I do now.

I also didn’t own a house.

That meant no lawn to mow, no sprinkler system to repair, no garage to fill with ladders, power tools, extension cords, hoses, and countless other “must-have” items that quietly accumulate with homeownership.

I didn’t own a car either. Hong Kong’s public transportation is so efficient that owning one would have been more trouble than convenience.

Looking back, I don’t think Americans necessarily consume more because they are more materialistic.

They consume more because the lifestyle requires more.

A single-family house comes with maintenance. A car comes with accessories and repairs. Living near the mountains invites hiking, skiing, camping, and cycling—each activity spawning its own collection of specialized gear.

Things beget more things.

Our spending habits are shaped as much by our circumstances as by our desires.

Young people often spend freely on clothing and socializing because appearance and friendships matter deeply during that stage of life. As we get older, our priorities shift toward health, exercise, nutritional supplements, and eventually travel.

What we buy changes because our lives change.

The shopping ban only temporarily interrupted my automatic habit of buying.

It gave me enough distance to ask a question I hadn’t asked in years:

Do I actually need this?

The answer, more often than not, is no.

After two years of hiking almost every week, I already own more outdoor gear than I can wear out. Another jacket won’t make me happier. Another pair of hiking pants won’t make the trail more beautiful.

From now on, my rule is simple: one in, one out.

The shopping ban didn’t just save me money.

It reminded me that enough is, in fact, enough.