As I entered my early twenties, I found myself seeking out more structure and tradition. In this process, I returned to my once-neglected religion. It was relatively natural. I like the discipline and the notion of amor mundi; I find the idea of commitment deeply compelling after my relatively hedonistic teenage years. I haven’t been going to church and my Arts degree values are still intact, but when Lent rolled around I wanted to do something. I haven’t given up anything for Lent since I was six (I gave up chocolate, then gorged myself on Cadbury eggs on Easter Sunday until I threw up). After considering my options, I decided that this year I would give up buying clothes. I thought it would be less impossible than giving up alcohol and more impactful than imposing some quasi-diet on myself. It’s much more fraught to give up chocolate as a grown-up.
I have a pretty fantastic wardrobe all things considered, although I’m not even close to being the best-dressed on campus. I’d love to say it is carefully curated, but that would be a lie. My wardrobe is a result of my compulsive spending and my ancient feminine instinct to gather. After three years in Trinity and six months in New York, I amassed a vast amount of second-hand clothes from charity shops, vintage shops, eBay, Depop, and Vinted. It is a talent of mine; friends often invite me thrifting because I’ve honed the skill of searching through old-season Zara dresses in order to find the perfect pre-loved-now-abandoned piece. When I enter a charity shop I inspect every single rail, examining each hanger until my arms get that familiar Chazza-ache. My ability to search on Vinted and eBay is an art; I know the key phrases and always sort by Newest Items First. The dopamine I feel when I make a purchase is almost embarrassing and wears off far too quickly for my own liking. It felt like a relief when I decided to cut out this habit, at least temporarily.
“Knowing that I couldn’t rely on the comforting buzz of a purchase on Vinted to make me feel better, I spent less time relentlessly scrolling on my phone than I usually would.”
It wasn’t too difficult in the beginning. When Lent began, I was in the depths of Dissertation-land, a place where shops are merely something blurry that you walk past on your way to or from the library. In fact, knowing that I couldn’t rely on the comforting buzz of a purchase on Vinted to make me feel better, I spent less time relentlessly scrolling on my phone than I usually would. It was actually quite freeing. It wasn’t quite Jesus in the desert without food or water, but it was a deliberate sacrifice of a habit I’ve had for years. The occasional devilishly gorgeous pair of boots presented themselves to me, but I restrained myself (which feels amazing, if you didn’t know).
My overbuying might be some kind of compensation for being a child in the early 2000s. In the golden age of Topshop, the clothes never quite fit me and were always out of budget. A new pair of jeans was the most exciting treat of the year. My experience was relatively typical, and in hindsight a fantastic way for my mum to teach me about moderation. As an adult, however, I seem to be in a buying frenzy in every charity shop I frequent. With such low prices and the added element of time pressure (I have to find the vintage Isabel Marant before the other, more sinister Depop girlie does). I become, quite literally, a child in a sweet shop. Again, I think my experience is relatively typical. So much for the protests against Shein and Zara, what about over-consumption of second-hand clothes? Will we Arts Building girls simply continue to buy from charity shops in some sick cyclical way until we donate the same items back to the same Oxfam? For you are a Chazza-Shop blouse, and to the Chazza you will return.
“I struggle to reconcile my spiritual intuition to spurn material possessions with my feminine urge to slay.”
It seems to me that the moral burden has been unduly lifted on buying second-hand clothes. Certainly, it’s not as bad as buying from the fashion giants, but I’m not sure that buying three new tops and two new skirts every couple of weeks is much better. I don’t have TikTok because I find it makes my brain atrophy. I do, however, see the occasional Instagram reel of thrifting hauls which to my mind advocates for over-consumption as much as a Shein haul does. Should we really have this much stuff? I’m not moralising here, I’m seriously asking. I struggle to reconcile my spiritual intuition to spurn material possessions with my feminine urge to slay.
“I better understand how the clothes I own make me feel, which in turn has attuned me to my own sense of embodiment.”
During my self-imposed shopping ban, I have spent a lot of time with my wardrobe. Pieces that once excited me briefly, and then suddenly became part of the pile at the back of the shelf, have a renewed vigour. I do tend to buy for good reasons. I try to make purchases with an outfit in mind made up of things I already own. However, my taste is confused by my need for newness. Through working with clothes I already owned, I have gained a better understanding of my own sense of style right now. More importantly, I’m learning the basics of composing an outfit. I better understand how the clothes I own make me feel, which in turn has attuned me to my own sense of embodiment. When putting my outfits together each morning, I have a renewed appreciation for particular lengths of skirts or trousers; I see what kind of proportions flatter me.
The shopping ban has helped me delineate my personal taste from social media. I have been forced to examine if I am really compelled by a trend or whether it’s just another picture of a sun-bathed Matilda Djerf looking ethereal and Blonde in a slip dress and an ill-fitting blazer. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t wear that exact outfit — God knows I have, and I will strike again — but I’m in no rush to replicate it with a new purchase.
“The most sustainable thing you can do is shop from your own wardrobe.”
Charity shops are a fantastic option for shopping on a budget and a great alternative to high-street brands in terms of their environmental impact. They are also a treasure-trove of clothes from a better time, when quality was valued both in fabric and construction. However, this article is specifically from the perspective of a College student who isn’t clothing herself for utilitarian purposes — and I’m not the only one. Having done many years of clothing-accumulation, taking this time away from shopping to play dress-up with the things I already own has proven deeply worthwhile. I feel the positive effects in my work, my bank-account, and my relationship to what I own. Give your debit card a break and spend time with your neglected clothes. The most sustainable thing you can do is shop from your own wardrobe. If that fails, steal your housemate’s clothes.
