Is It Even Fun To Constantly Want Things?
Indulging Desire Vs. Letting It Go via Rick Owens fur
The other day, I had time before meeting a friend for lunch, so I wandered into a consignment shop. As I casually browsed through the clothes, my hand brushed against an unbelievably soft curly lambswool fur jacket. I started petting it like a real weirdo. A woman nearby noticed and asked, "Do you know what THAT is?" Intrigued, I opened the coat to discover a simple, monochromatic etching on the label that read: Rick Owens. I glanced at the price tag and was surprised to see it was only $50. I slipped the jacket on, feeling a rush of excitement as the dopamine hit. "Oh my gosh, it's a Rick Owens jacket, and it's only 50 bucks!" I loved the soft paper thin cashmere that lined the arms and the snug fit of the front. But when I turned to glance at the back of the jacket, I was utterly baffled—what am I seeing?
Hold the phone— what in the anime convention is going on with my backside? My butt is screaming “BronyCon”. The fabric cutout seemed tailor-made for someone who wears a tail after dark. But even with this nonsense, I couldn't walk away. I snapped a photo and sent it to a few friends, asking if it could be fixed or somehow made to work. As I dug around online for more info on the jacket, my curiosity spiked when I found a similar one listed for a whopping $775. The listing claimed it was from Fashion Week 2004 Runway and was *rare* and *archival*. Suddenly, I couldn't shake the urge to make it mine. Why shouldn't I? I'd just read that furs were making a comeback, Rick Owens is a coveted brand, and I knew someone on eBay might fork over a lot more than what I'd pay for it right here, right now. These pangs of desire made me feel suddenly warm, erratic, and rushed. I lost track of the time. I checked the clock and ran out of the store to meet my friend.
During lunch, I showed her a photo of the jacket and she thought it was really cute. I felt a twinge of adrenaline. "Ah shit, I'm going to have to go back and get it!" I thought. But then, another friend I texted shot back with a clear "nope, hard pass." Relief flooded over me. Later that day, I saw an article that mentioned Rick Owens. "It's a sign," I thought, feeling compelled to go back and buy it. But truthfully, I'm not even a huge Rick Owens fan, and the jacket had its flaws—a tear on the shoulder and major alterations to the original design. So why was it still gripping me so tightly?
I'm not the only one wrestles with this desire to be "saved" from what I think I want. I hear others express the sentiment all the time, looking for help to rein in their shopping impulses. It's pretty common to stumble upon pleas like, "Please, convince me not to get anything from this sale," or "Can someone talk me out of buying these sandals?" These expressions aren't limited to self-help groups; they've become part of everyday conversations. There are so many tips to help curb these impulses or satisfy the itch – like making lists or waiting 48 hours before a purchase. A friend of mine used to go to Nordstrom Rack, load up a physical cart with everything she wanted, and then leave it in the corner of the store and walk out (now we can spare those poor retail workers and just do that online)
Since my Rick Owens encounter, I've been mulling over the question: Is it *actually fun* to want stuff all the time? How can I catch subtle signs of how it really feels, like the wave of relief whenever someone suggested I pass on the jacket? The other day, I finally saw a Row sweater up close and... yawn, it might as well have been from Coldwater Creek. Honestly, realizing it wasn't anything special was like an instant drop in blood pressure. I felt great because the illusion was shattered: no need to chase something I’d been told to find intriguing and to want for so long.
When we talk about minimalism or “no buy” challenges, we discuss the environmental and social impact of overconsumption. The message is: “We're being bad and need to cut it out. But it’s hard because it feels so good!” I’m starting to think differently. When it hit me that I really didn't want or need that jacket, I felt a ridiculous weight lift off my shoulders. The desire for the jacket had clouded my vision: driven by the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of catching a good deal, and that dopamine rush from wanting something! But once I stepped back, I saw what was really underneath: a hot, uneasy agitation. Turns out, wanting this jacket wasn't really fun at all. Once the feeling lifted, I got my brain back—I was peaceful and clear-headed.
You can’t totally wipe out desire from your mind, and honestly, you probably wouldn’t want to. Without desire, we wouldn’t bother to eat or drink; women wouldn’t have fought for the right to vote. But how often do we let desire take us hostage when we're not really paying attention? We often live under the illusion that desire or wanting is always pleasurable. Our society tells us that wanting is fun! All day long, we're bombarded with content that keeps us perpetually craving things: "7 Dresses From This New Line Are Living Rent-Free in My Head," or "The Jeans I’m Obsessed With And You Must Add To Your Wishlist."
I used to craft headlines like these for a living, so I understand how crucial these illusions are for making companies and individuals a lot of money. Good marketing dives deep into our psychology. When I was a copywriter, if what I wrote didn't spark a real, visceral desire, I felt like I was wasting my client’s time and money. I knew I couldn't sell water to a drowning man—it’s nearly impossible to ignite a craving in someone for something they don’t already desire. But I also knew that even when we have everything we need and there's no crisis, our brains easily confuse wants with needs. The dopamine rush from wanting something can trick us into thinking it's essential for survival. So, I aimed to make it feel really good for you to want that thing, almost as if it wasn't me convincing you, but rather you coming up with the idea yourself.
Let's face it, sometimes the thrill of wanting and the satisfaction of making a purchase is actually more enjoyable than owning the item. Many of us will reach peak satisfaction right after the purchase, only to lose interest a few weeks later as the initial excitement wears off (this is usually a sign for me that it was a lizard brain purchase). Could this behavior be rooted in our hunter-gatherer past, where constantly seeking out resources was crucial for survival? This endless cycle of wanting and buying—our brains are perfectly tuned for it.
When I think about what makes shopping enjoyable, I recognize the excitement, the dopamine rush, and the illusion of acquiring something that promises satisfaction. It can be a damn good time! However, a closer look reveals a layer of sadness in a society where shopping addiction is normalized—after all, the constant pursuit is an addiction fueled by emptiness.
“Depressed people buy more to make them feel better (who hasn’t bribed themselves to get through the day?). In what’s become known as the ‘loop of loneliness’, feeling sad makes us shop – and shopping makes us sad. Researchers from Tilburg University in the Netherlands went one step further and found that valuing possessions as ‘happiness medicine’ or as a measure of ‘success’ increased loneliness the most. Trying to sate or suppress sadness with ‘stuff’ doesn’t work. Whether it’s material possessions or food. I know, I’ve tried (you probably have too). “
As Americans, many places lack a rich cultural tapestry; our options for going out often limit us to consumer spaces. Recently, during a rainy Sunday visit with family, I felt overwhelmed and needed some space. With no option to walk and many places closed, I found myself driving to Target in the suburbs just to find some solitude. I called a friend and we ended up laughing about how Target was my only available sanctuary. But does this reflect more on my personal state or on American society at large? The concept of what are called "third places"—spaces like libraries or community centers where you aren't compelled to spend money—are nearly extinct. Have we become so accustomed to complacency and resignation that we stick with what's familiar, like going to a store when we’re lonely or bored? Are we so worn down by the scarcity of choices that we convince ourselves this is now what brings us comfort?
I’m not suggesting you adopt extreme measures like beating yourself over the back while chanting “I WILL NEVER BUY FROM UNIQLO AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE!”. What I’m aiming to articulate is the challenging position we find ourselves in while loving fashion as an expression of art and life, and striving to avoid the emptiness that can accompany it. What I *am* suggesting is to truly pay attention to how it feels to want things all the time—in contrast to how it feels when you don’t—you may find it’s like being released from the tight grip of a Rick Owens jacket. I think it’s personally worthwhile for me to understand that as long as I live with the misconception that 'wanting is always good' and that I should maximize it, I continue wanting more, and the cycle repeats. If I’m spending all of my time wanting, am I robbing myself of the ability to enjoy what I have? Am I robbing myself of the present moment?
So, next time you feel a desire creeping in, it might help to take a moment to be aware of it— and really feel it out. How does it feel to want something so bad? When it eventually fades away…can you notice how different it feels when you aren’t longing anymore? Can you compare the two?
There's a specific tranquility in not always feeling the need to chase after pointless desires. It doesn’t mean I won't ever want or buy or enjoy things again—if I do, that's fine. But can I quiet the frantic voice that pushes me into mindless hunter-gatherer mode? I can try. At the end of the day, I'm only human, and I'll never be totally free from desire. Getting a few moments of contentment without always craving more? That's good enough for now.
Do you think it's possible to find a balance between enjoying material things and not being consumed by the desire for more? Have you experienced a moment of clarity where you recognized the craziness or emptiness of a desire? What strategies do you use to distinguish between genuine needs and mere wants?
Would love to hear your thoughts.
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Every year I give up online shopping for Lent. Its interesting because I find that the first few weeks are hard, I see people posting something or I see an item in the store and think “ugh I want that”! BUT! By the third or fourth week I am feeling so much better - I am no longer aimlessly scrolling, I pick up a book, a new hobby. The anticipation of a post-Lent purchase carries me through the buying holiday, and when I get around to Easter I’ve forgotten about all those things I didn’t need anyways. Time is a gift when it comes to aimless desire.
That furry coat story will be living in my mind for a while- hilarious!! But we all do it. I was scrolling the infamous matches sale saving the items I’d maybe buy if the discount got high enough. I started to feel frantic, hearting things left and right. As soon as I closed the app my shoulders dropped. Why’d I bother with doing that anyway? Time to delete the shopping apps all together I think.