It all starts with me browsing Instagram watching a woman baking chia seed muffins in her perfect kitchen. Now, somehow, I’m on a fashion retail site that targets midlife women, browsing jumpsuits. I notice one that’s reduced by 30 per cent, and quickly select my size and drag it into my cute little basket. It takes three seconds. There’s also a pay in three parts option. Even better. I get email confirmation. I feel good. Or do I?
The moment I’m aware I feel good, the feeling rapidly ebbs away. I don’t need another jumpsuit. I have several. I’m not even sure jumpsuits suit me. It’s the middle of a heatwave! I feel a twist in my guts, anxiety at buying yet another item of clothing that I don’t need and can’t afford.
A few days later I’m at it again – buying yet another big collar blouse. I already have 12 of them.
I’m a middle-aged doom spender. If you haven’t heard of the term, doom spending is basically spending money on short-term, instant enjoyment, rather than saving it for the future, to cope with economic stress and worries.
It could be described as Gen Z’s version of retail therapy. A recent study by Credit Karma found 43 per cent of millennials and 35 per cent of Gen Zs doom spend to make themselves feel better. It’s also more common because we have access to phones 24/7, and can often get flexible credit arrangements. Heaven for shopaholics and those with addictive personalities!
I’m a Gen X woman and definitely a doom spender too. As a freelance writer and comedian, and the main earner, I also feel like my financial future is uncertain. I own my own house which is a massive privilege but I still have to pay off the mortgage. I don’t have any savings if work dries up.
Why is this type of spending attractive? Well when we buy something, be it IRL or online, we get a temporary rush of feel-good hormones (dopamine being one of them). For me, when I’m in the grip of a clothing purchase, I’m living in the future instead of the current moment. I’m visualising what I’ll look like in it and how different my life will be – almost as if this clothing will give me a new identity.
I’ve always used purchases to make myself feel better. It started around five years old when my parents got divorced. My father, when he was visiting, would often take me on a shopping spree, buying new clothes, shoes and toys.
My dad was a Marxist and was anti-consumerism but nonetheless this became a sort of “fatherly-love-language” and I associated new clothes with feeling happy and soothed. Whenever I have felt down I’ve turned to shopping.
Fast-forward to my thirties and I’m a managing partner in a global research agency and purchasing clothes was now an addiction. It was also actively encouraged – the image that best represents that time is probably Reese Witherspoon in Confessions of a Shopaholic. If I’d had a bad day I’d jump on the tube to Selfridges, and blow £200 on a new top.
I would always feel remorseful afterwards, and the minute I got home, I’d rip the tag off and shunt the purchase into the back of my wardrobe. I lived in a tiny studio that was so damp that when I got into bed at night the sheets were wet. I did, however, have beautiful clothes.
I was earning a good salary and didn’t have any dependents and it felt like everyone around me was spending too. What was the point of working like a dog if you didn’t reward yourself?
My world is very different now as I have two children, and am the main earner (and a freelance writer and comedian – without a massive salary).
There’s usually a direct correlation between my doom spending and sense of overall happiness. If I’m feeling fulfilled, I do it less, and if I’m going through a bad patch (freelancing is very up and down), I lean into the cycle of scroll/spend/scroll/spend.
I’m now, however, finally learning how to curb these tendencies.
First up I’ve found mindfulness very useful. I’ve noticed that when I’m feeling uncomfortable feelings I have a tendency to pick up my phone and distract myself. When I notice I’m doing this, I have become better at saying to myself – “Hey look you’re drawn to buying a blouse again. Why do you think that is?” I breathe and I give myself a bit of a talking to – “Yep that blouse looks amazing. The model looks incredible.” Then I close my eyes for a couple of seconds and focus on my breathing.
Often I notice that my breathing has become more rapid, I am envisaging myself in the blouse and I’m nailing it, and winning at life. I’m like some sort of massive celebrity, men are attracted to me, I get applause as I walk down the street, I win multiple awards. It becomes clear this fantasy is daft as hell! I quickly remind myself that the new blouse isn’t going to give me any of these benefits.
I breathe a bit more and put my phone down. If I buy this item I am just the same woman, but with less money, more anxiety and a fancy top. I try to do something else instead. I go into the garden. Or do some writing or play with the kids. Make myself a herbal tea. In the end I experienced a lot of relief. It’s not easy and I still get carried away but I’m doing it once a month now rather than once a week.
My dad died three-and-a-half years ago. It sounds heavy but I think about him a lot. Thoughts of him are often what lead me to buying stuff I don’t need. I think about how we use material things to navigate the unimaginable. And how we have to tolerate discomfort and find healthy ways to sit with it.
I am getting better at spotting the behaviours and where they come from. Of being less reactive. Being with dad made me feel safe. Ironically doom shopping makes me feel the same for a bit until it suddenly doesn’t.
“Don’t blame me for your retail addiction Nik,” Dad would say if he was here now, “I told you! It’s all a capitalist conspiracy!”
We’d laugh like drains because I was blaming him for yet another of my bad habits. Forgetting the good bits. He’d take a long drag on his pipe, and his eyes would twinkle a bit. He’d turn his head like he was about to say something monumentally philosophical.
“It’s sad how so many people have to escape their reality by buying stuff they don’t need don’t you think?” he’d say. I’d nod in agreement. We’d quietly consider this fact for a few moments.
It’s hard to accept that we’ll never talk again.