The first thing I remember really, really wanting was a Barbie Perfume Maker. I’d seen it advertised on TV, probably between Skippy and The Curiosity Show, and I was enthralled. After much hinting, my parents kindly gave it to me for my ninth birthday. I loved everything about it: the little plastic bottles with stick-on labels, the gaudily-coloured sticks you spun in water to make the perfume, the way you could mix and match them to create your own distinctive scent. And let me tell you, that scent was distinctive, if by ‘distinctive’, you mean sickly sweet with a touch of dental surgery. I didn't care. I was a perfumier!
What interests me now, in this, my No Buy Year, is why I wanted it so much. I suspect it has a bit to do with my mum’s favourite perfume, Tweed. I can still picture the little rectangular bottle filled with amber liquid sitting on Mum’s teak dressing table. I used to sneak in, twist open the wooden lid, dab some on my finger, and transfer it to my wrists and behind my ears, just as Mum had taught me. But even more than borrowing Mum’s Tweed, I wanted to have my own signature scent. The Barbie Perfume Maker promised me that and more. It provided a way for me to be creative and unique, and most of all, to feel grown up. Like all good advertising, it wasn’t the object I was buying but the dream.
Fast forward several decades, and I’m about to walk into the pharmacy to ask for advice. I accidentally burnt my hand on the stove a few days ago and it’s hurting quite a bit. As I lock up my bike, my eyes drift across the road to my favourite antiques shop. Almost immediately, I feel the familiar pull of wanting. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a sucker for a quirky vintage shop. I enjoy browsing the one-of-a-kind items, and I especially enjoy imagining where I’d put them in my home. My pattern goes something like this: walk into shop, see something I love, look at price tag, reason I can’t afford it, go home and think about it for several weeks, return to shop, look at the price tag, reason I can’t afford it, and go home to think about it some more. Or I discover it’s been sold and am overcome by the feeling of missing out.
Today, I choose not to go in the antiques shop. Part of my No Buy Year is removing myself from places that feed the wanting. Interestingly, the moment I make this decision, I sense a subtle drop in energy. And then I notice something I’ve never noticed before: I didn't just want something. I wanted to want something, and by eschewing the shopping expedition, I’m not only missing out on buying something, I’m missing out on the experience of wanting to buy it! Well, this is new. Why would I want to want something?
Then it comes to me: I’m worried about my burn. Is it infected? What if the pharmacist thinks I should get antibiotics? It’s the weekend so, I won’t be able to get into a doctor easily. I’ll have to find an urgent care clinic and wait there all day, and maybe not even get seen, in which case, I’ll have to go again tomorrow. Then I'll miss out on taking my nephew on an outing and he’ll be disappointed. But if I skip the clinic, the infection could get worse. My dad once got a small cut on his elbow, the infection took off and he almost lost his arm. OMG! I don’t want to lose my arm!
As these thoughts travel through my mind like a monkey swinging from branch to branch, I suddenly understand why it is that I want to want something. What I'm really seeking is relief from this low rumble of unease that a) my needs won't be met, and b) I won't be able to meet someone else's needs. My mind, keen to dampen down this feeling, has gone in search of an antidote, and found one.
I recently learned that simply thinking about buying releases dopamine. You don’t even have to buy anything to get the hit. And that’s what the shop across the road is promising: a nice juicy hit. Once I realise what I’m really seeking – and why – the feeling recedes. I don’t need the vintage shop anymore. I'm okay. Instead, I go into the chemist's where the pharmacist looks at my hand. ‘The burn is healing nicely,’ he says, ‘You have nothing to worry about. Just give it time and it’ll heal all by itself.’
Image credit: Unknown. I'm happy to credit the person once I know who it is.
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