Esther McCarthy: I'm trying to resist the lure of the till with the No-Buy Challenge
Esther McCarthy. Picture: Emily Quinn
My hands are shaking.
There’s a little tic under my left eye that bounces every couple of seconds, and a light sheen of sweat adorns my brow.
I’m suffering from severe withdrawal symptoms, and I’m jonesing for a hit, maaan.
A shopping hit. That sweet dopamine surge that comes with buying something I don’t particularly need.
Ah, but, therein lies the rub. I have embarked on a No Buy 2025. I have vowed to refrain from retail therapy for 12 months.
I am determined to buy nothing for the whole year. Sure, I’ll be grocery shopping, like, I’ll keep the family alive, and I guess I’ll have to buy units of electricity and grip socks for the boys and boring stuff like that.
But the mission is to not buy myself any clothes, shoes, earrings, handbags, scarves, hairbands (I have a whole BOX of hairbands, who am I, Alice In Wonderland?) accessories, trinkets, or baubles and so forth for 365 days.
But beware! Danger, danger!! I find myself with a half an hour to kill before collecting the kids from the cinema, and I somehow accidentally-on-purpose saunter into the shops in Mahon Point Shopping Centre for a little nose.
Who am I kidding?
Like the alcoholic on the bandwagon who reasons with themselves that they can go into a bar and just have a 0.0 beer, sure what’s the harm? And then they come around three days later entangled in a pink tutu and a legally-binding Vegas marriage.
I have foolishly put myself right in the jaws of temptation. What idiocy! For the January sales are in full flight. But I can do this, right? There’s nothing wrong with a lookey see. I can browse without buying.
Eeek, look! There’s a 30% off rail! My heart rate increases as I spy an entire 50% off section, and get out the Crayolas and colour me tickled pink — is that a buy one, get one half price offer?
It’s a red sticker bonanza. If this was a couple of weeks ago, it would have been my dream gig. No kids, hands literally free to fondle fabrics and caress co-ords, and a credit card ready to tap like Ginger Rogers.
I too can do things backwards and in heels. (I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again — my husband is a lucky man.)
But I’m serious about this No Buy thing. I tried it before from August 2021 to August 2022 and did OK. I bought a good bit — but returned most of them again.
I still yearn for a pair of gold leggings I got my hands (and legs, obviously) on but returned them the next day in a fit of remorse and self-disgust. Those, though, I should have kept.
I like to think about my clothes now in terms of cost per wear. So I don’t mind paying a little bit more if it’s something I’ll get the use out of. And I just know I’d have worn those suckers so much, they’d have owed me nothing by now.
Anyway, this Christmas, I was going through some things, and as seems to happen to me an awful lot actually, I found bags of clothes and shoes and boots I had put away.
I’m talking enough apparel to clothe an average PTA, including the one obligatory male — remember when camo was all the rage?
So, confronted with all that excess, and the damning realisation that my wardrobe has slowly bulged back to its pre-2012 obesity, it’s given me the kick I needed to try to make my wardrobe get its figure back again.
I reckon it would be easier than me having to do it to my actual body. My logic is sound.
But it’s proving harder than expected right now, toddling around the bargainland formerly known as Zara, I didn’t even I was halfway to trying on that gorgeous shaggy cardigan that’s on sale for half price.
“You’re SAVING money if you buy it!’ the fashionable demon in fabulous shoes on my left shoulder coos into my ear.
“Hmm, this guy is talking a lot of sense,” I think, shrugging the cardigan all the way on, doing a little twirl and looking at myself over my shoulder in the mirror to see if it covers my arse.
“But you’re only a few days in, you can’t fall at the first hurdle. Think of the SHAME,” scolds the killjoy with the halo and the naff blazer on my right shoulder.
I desperately need to extract myself from the lure of the till. I skedaddle out of there, holding my hands over my face on either side, like blinkers to block my view of Next.
I do what any self-respecting woman with teetering discipline would do — I set up a WhatsApp group and guilt two friends into doing the No Buy challenge with me.
We’ll hold each other accountable, cheer each other on, and lend clothes if one of us needs a new look for an event, like a trip to the big Dunnes or something.
If anyone else wants to join, just let me know. It’s good for the environment, your wallet — and think how amazingly smug you’d feel if you actually achieved the Holy Grail of Getting Ready: a capsule wardrobe where you can actually see everything you own, hanging serenely on wooden hangers, in front of a shrine to Marie Kondo.
