The World is a One-Stop Shop

I swear, I'm losing my mind with consumerism lately.

No, not in my usual rage about how ridiculous and grossly North American it is. In my inability to stop.

It's funny, I don't have much in the way of stuff. I own maybe five purses, probably eight pairs of shoes. A normal closet of clothes, I even had a coworker ask me once where I kept all my stuff, as she saw my closets and thought they appeared rather empty.

But here's my trick: I'm a trader.

I buy a new pretty thing? I get rid of an old once-pretty thing.

Sometimes more than one oldie gets recycled in honour of the new thing. If the oldie isn't that oldie at all and in pretty-delicious condition, I will find myself sending it to my mom or my sister, and they enjoy the new-to-them. If it's slightly raggedy, I get it prepped for a trip to the Sally Ann. It's not completely wasteful -- I never throw anything away -- so I shouldn't feel bad. Right?

In the last couple of months, I've been over-indulging in a bad way. Well, not bad bad, but scandalous bad. I've found new beloved stores and new beloved cuts that fit just right and new fun patterns and colour schemes and, holy hell, I just can't get enough.

I want a black pair of pointy heels like the brown ones I just got, and I want their beige-and-brown open-toed sisters. I want cropped brown version of my new favourite perfectly-fitting black pants. I want more denim and I want it hemmed just right. I want this darling short sleeved black blouse. I want a black jacket to wear when I'm not in the mood for my new-best-ever white and beige striped one. I want lip gloss. I want purses. I want glasses. I want, want, want, want, want.

It's a good thing I never tried any real drugs.