There’s something stressful about consumption.

It demands forethought, analysis—but it’s so often disguised as entertainment (#TargetRun! Women be shoppin’, amirite?) that we forget how much effort it takes.

A few weeks ago, I was reminded of the year’s most acute variant of this feeling: “What’s on your list for Black Friday?” The question prompts a tailspin of materialist self-inquiry.

I scan my privileged life for “lack” like a heat-seeking missile, searching for some inadequacy that could be improved by a “20% off” purchase. “Well, my AirPods battery is crapping out,” I think, grasping at technological straws; “Maybe I could upgrade those?”

This commercial holiday was no doubt invented so people could stock up on gifts for the actual holidays, but at some point, Black Friday morphed into something else: It’s now an event for purchasing the on-sale version of whatever practical items you’ve accumulated on a list all year long. (Never mind the fact that many of these “deals” are fake.)

Unleashing your pent-up desire in one discounted frenzy, the sense is that you better not miss your chance to upgrade your kitchen knives or replace your comforter, because Lord only knows the next time the “sale” will be this good. A frenetic online treasure hunt ensues.

Competing bargains (or, more accurately, regular prices masquerading as bargains) parade through your browser—in inboxes, in popups, in your algorithmically brilliant social feeds. Tabs mushroom across the top of your screen; you become disoriented. Wait, where did the parka go? Didn’t I just have the parka pulled up? What color? Oh, that reminds me, I needed to order new gloves…but what material? Hm. More tabs!

It reminds me of a scene in Stuart Little 2 that—because of the snort-laughs it elicited from my mom and dad in the theater—was embedded in my 2nd grade memory. “I still feel bloated,” Snowball the Cat complains aloud. He approaches his bowl and concludes: “Maybe more food will help.” This encapsulates my confusing, dopaminergic relationship with consumerism.

Our material desires do not sprout from spontaneous generation. Lists upon lists proliferate online with “ideas” for what to purchase; guides to the retail tsunami disguised as fun for the whole family. You don’t know what you want? they seem to say. Here, let us help!

We may be navigating a challenging economic landscape, but our consumption habits for the things we don’t need sure aren’t helping. Take our relationship with what we wear, for example: Americans today reportedly own five times as much clothing as they did in the 1980s (never mind the fact that the remote workers among us leave the comfort of our homes as little as possible). This is due, perhaps in part, to the social contagion of online trends, with turnover rates higher than the underpaid wage laborers employed to supply them. It’s estimated that influencers sold $3.6 billion of product through LikeToKnowIt (or LTK) in 2022, a platform used to monetize recommendations. According to a 2020 Princeton review, the fashion industry consumes one-tenth of all water used industrially, and 57% of discarded clothes end up in landfills.

And while I’m often irritated at the suggestion that individual consumers are to blame for the amount of waste involved, it’s hard to deny the economic reality: The more we buy, the more they’ll produce. “Yes, individual choices matter,” Jag Bhalla and Eliza Barclay wrote for Vox, “especially if you’re affluent.”

I know, I know—Stop lecturing me about climate change, Katie, can’t you see I’m tired? Let me enjoy adding another pair of fleece-lined leggings to cart in peace!

And hey, I don’t mean to rag on the post-Thanksgiving tradition of mowing down your fellow woman for the last pair of size 6 joggers. My point is merely that disengaging with consumption culture isn’t something we should do out of pure altruism, but because it’s not actually fun.

It’s a part-time job we pay to perform. Forget about consumption—it’s choresumption.

In that sense, a worldview of ascetic frugality feels like a hall pass from this chaos. A sale on stuff you don’t need anyway is no longer cause for interrupting your day. This, I think, was my favorite thing about my initial embrace of the FI/RE mindset: There’s quite a bit of marketplace noise that goes serenely quiet when you want nothing. You’re liberated from the time-consuming commitment to constantly scour the marketplace for something that might make your life better (and, by extension, to find it as cheaply as possible).

On the opposite side of the spectrum, finding yourself in a position of financial strength where you don’t feel compelled to shop sales—instead buying the few things you need, when you need them, and moving on—is similarly peaceful. It’s just a happy coincidence that embracing the former philosophy often fuels your ascension to the latter.

But the pull of this messy middle, this frantic consumption for sport—where the thrill of getting 10% off a KitchenAid obfuscates the fact that you didn’t need a KitchenAid—feels especially bleak and miserable this year. A sale is, after all, still someone trying to sell you something.

It’s a sleight of hand—save money by spending it!—that feels so cheap, so degrading. Ultimately, it adds another “to-do” to an already-unmanageable list. “I hate shopping,” my husband said from across the room during the Cyber Weekend marketing blitz, staring dejectedly at his laptop, “I never know what to buy.”

The implanted assumption that we should be buying things bequeaths us with another problem to solve: You now must figure out what.

But hey, if you must buy something, I have a suggestion.