The online shopping dragon knows my weaknesses: a good brand, a great deal, and a red dress. Put all three in one Poshmark listing and apparently my discerning inner banker takes a long lunch break.
That’s how I acquired this BOSS Hugo Boss dress, complete with an original €515 price tag. I paid considerably less—$99—which felt like a victory until it arrived. The advertised red was dark orange. The arms were too tight. The zipper refused to complete its assignment. And lightweight polyester lined with more polyester was hardly the cooling system I needed for Florida.
Had I encountered this dress in a store, I would likely have walked right past it. Online, however, I bought a compelling little story about what a wonderful deal I was getting. The dress itself delivered a different story. No return. No exchange. FINAL SALE. What the hell was I thinking?
Two linen dresses, both made in Italy, are coconspirators in the same online Poshmark shopping story. Those purchases followed this summer’s Mediterranean cruise and visit to Rome, when apparently my shopping philosophy became: “If you love a country, acquire as many things from it as possible.” I brought home lovely memories, then went online and ordered more Italy at incredibly great deals.
The linen was appealing. The fit wasn’t. And with my standards for quality, comfort, and fit becoming more discerning, the alterations needed wouldn’t be worth it. Another $68 spent on dresses I wouldn’t wear.
That made me wonder what a Closet Confessions session might look like in a corporate boardroom—or in government. What have we bought because the presentation was persuasive, the name was impressive, or someone promised an irresistible deal? Did we establish the need, examine the material, and check the fit with the people expected to live with it? And when it didn’t work, did we acknowledge that—or spend more money trying to make the original decision look good?
My dresses cost me $167 and some wounded pride. When public money is involved, the consequences reach people who never got a say in the purchase. “Needs before solution” deserves a seat at that table, too. So does another question: what will it cost to change course if this doesn’t work?
There’s quite an economy wrapped around our emotions: the pleasure of browsing, the prestige of a label, the thrill of a bargain, the anticipation of a package, and the hope that something will make us feel like the person we imagine wearing it. Sometimes we buy something to fix a perceived problem and end up creating another one. Meanwhile, the practical questions—Does it fit? Do I like the fabric? Does it suit my actual life?—wait patiently for a turn.
My old sales principle should apply to my own shopping, too: Needs before solution. Even when the solution to a problem that may not actually exist comes with a very impressive price tag.
So, the day before October’s new moon—a symbol of new beginnings for me—these three dresses went to New Beginnings thrift store, which benefits people experiencing homelessness in our community. Hopefully someone can see them in person, feel the fabric, check the fit, and find the perfect dress for the perfect occasion at an even better deal.
The money is spent. I didn’t need to keep spending closet space and attention defending purchases that, in hindsight, were bad ideas for me. Those dresses may be wonderful for someone else.
The shopping dragon can come along next time. But it doesn’t get to hold my wallet.