I was a lifelong thrifter, committed to buying second-hand. Then I became addicted
Life got tough and, to my shame, I lost control of my priorities
This First Person column is the experience of Jennifer LoveGrove, who lives in Toronto. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
When I got home from work, there were packages piled at my door. My partner was on his way to my place. There wasn't time to open them, to try on the new outfits, to post another thrift haul on Instagram. Worse, I couldn't admit I'd bought something else — something surely perfect this time! — despite all the neglected outfits bursting from my closet. Cringing, I shoved the packages under the couch and out of sight.
That's when I knew I had a problem, one more embarrassing than dangerous. It happened gradually, while wearing ratty sweatpants, during the years between the pandemic and turning 50. I had become addicted to shopping.
I've been a thrifter for as long as I can remember. I grew up in a small town and loved yard sales. As a child, I'd try on my grandmother's shoes and jewelry, and as a teen I was thrilled to get like-new, hand-me-downs from a fashionable aunt. In high school, we'd cram into the car of whomever agreed to take us vintage shopping in nearby Hamilton.
When I was younger, buying second-hand was not only affordable, but one-of-a-kind fashion was a way I expressed my creativity. Buying used offered uniqueness; no one else in theatre class would be wearing the same 1960s paisley dress with the sleeves cut off and a Dead Kennedys band logo glue-gunned onto the back.
Decades later, with the growing awareness of fast fashion's substantial role in the climate crisis, I became even more committed to buying second-hand. Swaps, thrift stores and sites like Poshmark and Facebook Marketplace provided the familiar thrill of the hunt and unique finds, while aligning with my values of sustainability.
But when the pandemic hit, my relationship to shopping changed. With plans cancelled or indefinitely postponed, I was alone, depressed and had nothing to look forward to. Learning to play the drums helped, but a painful injury knocked me down again.
Despite having nowhere to wear new outfits, I began to cheer myself up by shopping.
It began, ironically, with a local Facebook group dedicated to mindful consumption of second-hand fashion, which provided not just great outfits but social contact and even exercise in the form of bike rides to go pick up purchases.
I was still committed to second-hand fashion, but suddenly I couldn't get enough. When packages arrived, opening them boosted my mood, but the lift was temporary. A vintage leather skirt offered hope that I'd someday attend another concert, but it didn't fit. The beautiful cashmere cardigan was a steal but unbearably itchy against my sensitive skin.
Not only was I over-buying used clothing, I began buying new, too. If I liked something used but it wasn't in my size or sold to someone else, I'd obsess, unable to let go, stalking it like prey. A pair of high-rise wide-leg Levi's launched my enthusiasm into obsession. The used ones from Facebook didn't quite fit, and though I checked Poshmark frequently for my size, I lost patience, finally succumbing to buying them new.
I should have stopped then; instead I doubled down. I just hadn't found the right outfit yet, the style or look that would make me feel better.
My shopping — and credit card debt — was out of control. One used Free People tunic was practical; did I need it in three colours? I was ashamed. Once committed to ethical consumption, I'd become the opposite. A hypocrite.
After lockdowns and isolation were behind me, my shopping addiction persisted until I eventually realized I'd become the kind of shopper that I'd spent most of my life obnoxiously judging: impulsive, undisciplined, unoriginal.
Change of life changed my shopping — again
The moment I found myself hiding the unopened packages under the sofa coincided with the distressing changes of menopause. My body and my moods felt alien to me. Nothing fit and everything ached. I was so bloated, I convinced myself it was a third-trimester Post-Menopausal Immaculate Conception (it wasn't).
The body-shaming voice in my mind, fed by patriarchy and the 1990s heroin-chic propaganda of my youth, had surged back. If only I could find something flattering — soft pants, wrap dress, linen tunic — I would feel good again.
I resented my body, but I felt worse for caring at all. Clearly I'd failed as a feminist if I'd internalized harmful fatphobia.
But once I stopped berating myself, I was able to see the emotional layers.
As a young thrifter, I was expressing a creative and ethical identity. During the pandemic, I wasn't buying outfits, I was buying hope. After perimenopause invaded my body, I was buying comfort.
I was trying to buy back my past self.
That realization made the addiction less shallow, but it didn't make it vanish. I still needed to curb the impulses and regain my confidence.
Now, before clicking the checkout button, I force myself to answer a series of questions: Did I truly need this, would it last, did I have something similar?
I'm learning to (mostly) avoid temptation. Resisting the urge to buy The Dress That Will Solve All My Problems is one challenge; accepting my aging body — with its fluctuating sizes, random acne, sore shoulders and anxiety — is another.
New outfits don't bestow body acceptance, but playing the drums and cycling — physical activities I love — are healthier mood-boosters. So is telling my inner critic to shut up.
Despite the best intentions, I learned how easily my behaviour can veer away from what I aspire to if I'm not vigilant. I'm still paying for all this, literally, but I'm upcycling my old concert T-shirts into new looks, purging my closet and feeling more myself.
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