One of my major life events last semester was the purchase of my first pair of designer jeans. Entranced, I lifted the black garment from its mailing package, the legs unfurling like a perfectly-chanted spell, and I felt as though my life had changed in some special and unique way, like the special and unique wash of the jeans. I viewed this as my christening into the world of designer clothes, where the name Balenciaga would breeze from my lips as casually as that of a close friend’s. I also saw this as a step in the direction of my becoming a disciplined shopper, where I would discriminately buy versatile items as easily worn to a Friday night date as a Sunday brunch. This resolution came from a past littered with far too many barely-worn clothes in bags to be sent to Goodwill; my closet during high school was a model of the market flow, with goods racing in and out faster than you could say “Abercrombie.”

Embarking upon my freshman year of high school, I was confident that preppy attire would gain me acceptance. It would only be a matter of weeks until I was on "hi" terms with Nick Kollings and Andrew Hubbard. But the result was a far cry from the desired one: because they were so large, the extra fabric from my cargo pants buckled in front from having to be cinched to my waist, giving me the appearance of being incessantly aroused. A visor propped up my over-gelled bangs, creating an explosion of black icicles atop my head. This bizarre image aside, I could not overcome my shyness no matter how many clothes I bought, and I certainly could not ascend into the upper echelons of my class. It seemed as though the passenger seat of Nick’s Grand Cherokee was not for me to ride in.

Even today I can understand why shopping is such a source of pleasure as it is suggested that people can mold their identities according to what they buy. In recent trips to the Mall of America, far more fun than I care to admit, I weave through the herds of hungry shoppers grazing amongst the stores and realize that this is how the majority of my fellow Americans think and behave. As I pass by Forever 21, where the stench of sweatshop labor is especially potent, I can’t help but wonder why people nowadays don’t seem to have any sense of long-term use in mind when they buy things. Has it become cheaper to buy new than repair the old? I suppose competition for consumers is fierce, so companies sacrifice the quality of their products for lower, more attractive prices. And while shopping is definitely fun, when it turns into buying for the sake of buying it becomes something else, naked in its wastefulness. I recognized this waste I was enabling: all of my preppy clothes were going to end up sitting in landfills, for even I knew there was no one at Goodwill who would want to buy a crusty, gelled visor.

I don’t think a higher price tag necessarily leads to longer use; for instance, there is no guarantee a person will hang onto their Diesels longer than their 501s (and what if they’re vintage 501s?). But in order to reduce the surge of wasteful production and consumption, I decided that buying a small number of nice items would put my appetite at rest—a kind of stomach-stapling, if you will. Of course, this was only available to me as a person of privilege, having the dual luxury of free time and money to spend without a job or family to support.

Looking back after four months of dwindling enthusiasm, I cannot say that my designer jeans were the best use of a hundred bucks, but because it set me back so much, there is no threat of me needlessly buying a new pair. In fact, I can't really afford to buy much of anything right now.