The exercise equipment, kitchen gadget, unread book or jacket with the tags still attached seemed like a perfectly good idea when we bought it. So what happened?
Somewhere in your home, there’s probably something you were once quite excited about.
Maybe it’s a bread maker.
Perhaps it’s a set of weights, an expensive planner, a craft kit, a language course or a pair of shoes that seemed like they would completely transform your wardrobe.
You bought it with every intention of using it.
And then you didn’t.
Months later, you find it in a closet and wonder why you bought it in the first place.
But perhaps the more interesting question is why it felt so right at the time.
Are we sometimes buying for our future selves?
When we buy something, we’re not always thinking about the person we are today.
Sometimes we’re shopping for the person we imagine we’re going to become.
The person who makes fresh bread every Sunday.
The person who gets up at 6 a.m. to exercise.
The person who reads a book every week.
The person who finally organizes all the family photographs into beautiful albums.
Buying the equipment can feel like the first step toward becoming that person.
Unfortunately, owning running shoes and going running are two entirely different activities.
Why does buying something feel like progress?
Imagine deciding that you’d like to get fitter.
Actually becoming fitter takes time.
You have to exercise repeatedly, including on days when you’d rather not.
Buying new workout clothes is much easier.
It takes an hour and gives you an immediate sense that something has started.
The same thing can happen with cookbooks, organizational systems, productivity apps and hobby equipment.
Buying the thing is concrete.
The change we’re hoping to make is much harder.
Sometimes the purchase gives us a little of the satisfaction before we’ve actually done any of the work.
Why are we so optimistic about how much time we’ll have?
Next month always seems strangely spacious.
Next month you’ll cook properly.
You’ll start learning Spanish.
You’ll sort out the garage.
You’ll read all those books.
Then next month arrives looking remarkably similar to this month.
Work still needs doing. Dinner still needs making. People still want things from us.
We often make purchases based on the time and motivation we imagine we’ll have rather than the time and motivation we actually have.
Perhaps the neglected object isn’t evidence that we failed.
Maybe our prediction was simply unrealistic.
Do sales make us buy things we don’t need?
A discount changes the question.
Instead of asking:
“Do I want this enough to spend $80?”
we start asking:
“Should I buy this now while it’s only $45?”
Those aren’t the same question.
The reduced price creates a feeling that we’re gaining something by buying it.
But saving $35 on something we never use isn’t really saving $35.
We’ve spent $45.
That doesn’t mean sales are bad. If you’re already planning to buy something, a lower price is clearly useful.
The problem comes when the discount becomes the reason for the purchase.
What about things that promise to make life easier?
These can be particularly tempting.
A gadget that saves time.
A storage system that promises to eliminate clutter.
A kitchen appliance that supposedly makes healthy meals effortless.
Sometimes these products are genuinely useful.
But occasionally the solution creates another problem.
It needs storing.
Cleaning.
Charging.
Maintaining.
Learning how to use.
The object that was supposed to simplify life becomes another object we have to manage.
Why don’t we return things?
This is another mystery.
We buy something, decide almost immediately that we don’t really want it and then leave it sitting in the bag until the return period expires.
Returning it requires action.
You have to find the receipt, package the item, drive to the store or arrange shipping.
Tomorrow seems perfectly reasonable.
Then suddenly it’s six weeks later.
At that point, the object quietly moves from “thing I’m going to return” to “thing I apparently own.”
Does online shopping make this easier?
It certainly removes some friction from buying.
You can see something you like and own it within a few taps.
There’s very little time between desire and purchase.
Years ago, wanting something might have involved driving to a store, finding it, comparing options and standing in line to pay.
Now you can buy something while watching television.
Convenience is useful.
But occasionally that little bit of inconvenience gave us time to decide whether we actually wanted something.
How can we tell whether we’ll really use something?
There’s no perfect test.
But one question can be surprisingly useful:
“When exactly am I going to use this?”
Not “Would I like to use this?”
Not “Could this be useful?”
When will you actually use it?
If you’re buying hiking equipment, is there a hike planned?
If you’re buying a kitchen appliance, what are you going to make with it this week?
If you’re buying clothes, can you think of somewhere you’ll actually wear them?
The more specific the answer, the more likely the purchase may fit into your real life rather than your imagined one.
Maybe unused things aren’t always wasted
Occasionally we try something and discover it isn’t for us.
That’s useful information too.
The guitar gathers dust because you discovered you don’t particularly enjoy playing guitar.
The bread maker sits unused because buying bread turns out to suit your life perfectly well.
We don’t have to turn every interest into a permanent hobby.
But there is something useful about noticing the pattern.
What do we repeatedly buy?
What do we repeatedly use?
And where is there a gap between the two?
Because the things we buy often say something about the life we imagine having.
The things we actually use may tell us rather more about the life we really live.