On Black Friday, Bargain-shopping, and Possessions

I woke up yesterday morning, coupons all organized, ready to hit the post-Thanksgiving craziness known as Black Friday. And then I read the an op ed in the Boston Globe—"Alice’s Adventures in Retail Land" by Joan Wickersham. In this piece, Ms. Wickersham describes through her fictional Alice several ploys used by retailers to sucker us into buying more. There I saw one of my recent retail pilgrimages described—buy $100 worth and we’ll give you an x% discount (or buy $100, and we’ll take $25 off your bill.)

My first foray into one of my favorite women’s clothing stores, I actually resisted because I couldn’t find anything I wanted to bring my $80 full price purchase up to $100 (and I was already getting a discount). But the more I thought about the things I tried on that day, the more I wanted them. When I returned home to no-tax-on-clothing Massachusetts, I succumbed to bargain #2. In this case, it was spend $150 and we’ll give you $50 off. Sounds like a 33% discount-not bad, especially if the goods have already been marked down—but that is if you buy exactly $150 worth. Otherwise, the percent discount goes down. However, for another $20, I could now enter the rarefied realm of a “special customer” (having shopped in this store previously over several years and racked up a certain number of points), and forever after would always get at least a 5% discount. Of course, the item I wanted and eventually chose was more than $20. At this point, without a calculator, it was difficult to figure out whether or not I obtained a better deal. But I was hooked, with no chance of being tossed back into the river.

The point is that this kind of bait (and I avoid using the word “scam” here because the conditions are all up front) lures us into spending more than we intended. Not that I wasn’t aware of what was happening at the time. But sitting in the comfort of my kitchen, away from the huge adrenaline rush of making the perfect purchase, I could see that braving the Black Friday crowds was essentially pointless, especially as I really didn’t need anything and had given up most gift giving a couple of years ago. The true bargains are few and available only to those ready to wait in line with 1000’s of others at 4am. There will be other sales, and some of them may be better. They will certainly involve fewer crowds. Of course, I knew that the editorial would prompt only a brief moment of sanity, not a sea change in my behavior.

Some people abhor shopping. Although I am not a shopaholic, I do not hate shopping. It’s genetic, I suppose. My mother, who successfully managed to downsize at age 60 for a move across the ocean, managed in the next 30 years to fill up her closets again. When she moved into a nursing home the last year of her life, we realized she had never given or thrown away a single item of clothing in all that time, including several hideous polyester pants and vest sets, from the 1970s, when she was a good 20 pounds heavier than her later in life weight. And these, kept by a person, who deeply cared about appearing fashionable until she was 90. When she could no longer shop in stores, she hit the mail order catalogues, and if she were alive today, no doubt she would enjoy the ease of on-line shopping.

As one of the people involved in cleaning out my mother’s apartment, I was inspired sufficiently to come home and clean out my own closets on a regular basis. But I fear there is still more incoming than outgoing. Staying away from sources of temptation is more difficult than it once was. The daily deluge of coupons in my email inbox can be deleted with the click of a button, but it’s not always that easy. What if this is the week I decide to buy that new computer, or the scarf to go with odd color winter coat I bought? I am capable of some rational thinking. Because my office is at home, and I have fewer meetings these days, I no longer allow myself to look at suits. (My last suit purchase a couple of years ago was a huge mistake. I went into another one of my favorite women’s clothing stores to buy a pair of pants in a particular color, and there happened to be a matching jacket—both were substantially reduced. I have worn the pants a number of times, but never the jacket. A bargain you never use is not a bargain.)

My husband, who is not much of a shopper, has come up with the perfect 21st century invention for today’s consumer, who may be concerned that they have run out of space for their purchases—rental storage rooms, like the U-Haul ones where we store our junk, except you can take your new purchases there immediately. Why waste time driving them home?

I hope it never comes to that. But old habits are hard to change. I think about a former colleague of mine, who each year would give away her small wardrobe and replace it with new items, each of which became well used over the course of that year. I admire that. I envy that. But as much as I long to rid myself of things, I can’t bring myself to behave that way. There is something thrilling about excavating through one’s belongings and finding a long forgotten item. Maybe one day ten years from now I will unearth one of those items I bought in my recent expedition, and it will feel fresh and new. And as much as I still dine out on the story of my mother’s 30 bags of clothes we gave to charity, I was delighted that she had kept her beautiful outfits circa 1960, both vintage and fashionable, thanks to the success of “Mad Men.”

I hope I can find some happy medium, where the incoming purchases are reserved for the needed or the special (regardless of whether or not they are bargains), where the outgoing starts to surpass the incoming, where my increasingly precious time and money are spent on activities that are ultimately more satisfying, and where Black Friday is just a day of rest after a large meal.

On Channeling Beth

Like many sibling relationships, mine with my sister Beth was complicated. It was loving, competitive, intimate, and at times rage-inducing. Beth was a fashion designer, and not surprisingly she felt somewhat wedded to fashion trends both good and bad. I, in contrast, held a certain amount of scorn about blindly following what seemed to me arbitrary schemes by the clothing industry to shame women into throwing out their wardrobes every couple of years. On more than one occasion, we had screaming fights on this topic. No doubt we both dug in our heels more deeply than our beliefs would have dictated. I liked clothes, but I shopped with an eye to bargains rather than what was in, what suited me, or what even fitted me properly.

Sadly, Beth died seven years ago on March 16 from cancer. After her diagnosis, I promised myself that I wouldn’t start any arguments with her, especially about fashion. During those 22 months of ups and downs regarding her prognosis, our relationship was about mutual support, particularly since we had lost our last parent, our mum, just the previous year.

For some years prior to Beth’s illness I had been writing a screenplay with a friend, but a couple of months after Beth’s surgery, I returned to writing on my own. I wrote another screenplay based on some experiences I had had in Japan as a young woman. As it happens, Beth had spent the last decade peddling her knitwear designs in Japan, travelling there twice a year. I asked her to read my script, and she gave me some practical suggestions regarding cultural references as well as a hilarious explanation for a character’s physical condition that I incorporated. (I won’t give it away!) Beth herself was a wonderful and humorous writer with a gift for an original turn of phrase, but her literary efforts were confined to letters, then faxes, and finally emails. Had she lived, I wonder if she would have written something lengthier, perhaps a memoir of her years in the fashion industry.

For more than two years after Beth’s death, my own creativity dried up. I didn’t have the heart , nor the emotional energy to write anything, much less to complete the novelization of the screenplay. The loss of my only sibling with whom I’d been so close was devastating, and with Beth’s passing went my connection to my nuclear family and all that history it represented.

Then in 2005 two things happened within a few months of each other. I began to shop, and I began to write again. Oh, how I shopped. I began watching TLC’s “What not to Wear,” and I went through my wardrobe with a critical eye, giving away bags of ill-fitting, out-of-date, and unbecoming clothes in unflattering colors. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I followed the trends. For someone in her middle years, some of these seemed most unsuitable. Rather, I focused more on classical pieces that fit, and colorful fun pieces that I would enjoy wearing. I still looked at price tags and shopped at sales, but my sense of a reasonable cost increased from my 1970s yardstick. And, gasp, I even bought a few things at full price! At times I became obsessed with finding the right top to go with the pants I’d purchased or with one of Beth’s designs that I wore, travelling to multiple shops along the way. I felt possessed.

I am not a superstitious person. I walk under ladders, let black cats cross my path, and don’t worry about Friday the 13th. I don’t consider myself a person of great faith, or even a particularly spiritual person. But I swear that I was channeling Beth. Maybe it was her fun way of getting back at me for giving her such a hard time about her passion. But as I mentioned, I also started writing again-with a greater sense of purpose and with more regularity. I took better classes and workshops to hone my craft, and I not only completed multiple drafts of the novel about Japan, I wrote a second novel. This burst of creativity also felt like a gift from Beth, who was enormously talented and prolific. (The prestigious Victoria and Albert Museum in London recently took all her fashion archives—sketches, photos, costings, etc. as well as several samples from her collection.) I know there may be rational explanations for both of these phenomena; I studied psychology. I also understand that both the interest in fashion and the creativity describe my mother. But I like to believe that Beth, who had provided me some seed funds, was watching over her little sister—giving her a push.

A couple of months ago, I perused my bulging wardrobe and realized I didn’t really need anything new for the time being. Beth would have said it was about “want not need.” As a self-employed person who works at home much of the time, I only have so many occasions where something other than jeans is the appropriate attire. Oddly, during this period, I have felt less creative. Each session at the computer has felt like more of a struggle. I am not suggesting cause and effect here. Maybe I am going through an end-of-winter dry patch. Maybe I need to take a break or an inspiring course. Alternatively, maybe there is a time limit to a spirit’s assistance. Maybe Beth has moved on to more important causes. Or maybe she feels her work is done and that I can do this all by myself. Or maybe like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz I had the power all along.

In the meantime, let me honor this day and Beth’s memory with a very short story (or poem if you prefer) that I wrote for a class during my first few months of renewed creativity (and have since revised.) (Note the structure of the story. The first sentence is 10 words; the second, nine, and so forth.)

Channeling Corinne

Corinne was a clothes horse and a slave to fashion.
Her sisterly advice drove me into a rebellious rage.
“Pleated pants are so unflattering; buy something new!”
“You used to wear them,” I screamed.
“They’re no longer in,” she scoffed.
Corinne died two years ago.
I obsess over style.
Replace my wardrobe.
Corinne teases.
“Shopaholic!”


Beth—RIP. I love you. PS. I did just buy a cute little black jacket with white polka dots. Totally didn’t need it.