My Part

Apr 14, 2024

A writer recounts how giving in to the temptation of materialism almost cost her everything.

The sound of the front door shutting startled me. Quickly, I yanked a dress down from a hanger and draped it over the bags in our closet. My pulse raced as I surveyed my attempt at hiding what I bought that day. I threw a robe on top of the dress to further soften the angular outline of the bags.

I’d just started as a part-time employee at Nordstrom to earn extra money and get an employee discount. On most weekends, when I wasn’t working at a tech company, I moved with armfuls of clothes between bright displays and dim gray stockrooms.

I started sneaking shopping bags into my bedroom as a teen to hide purchases from my dad, who would remind me he had only two pairs of shoes growing up. Now, as a 30-year-old newlywed in Hoboken, New Jersey, I was hiding Nordstrom bags from my husband in our closet, trunk, and under the bathroom sink.

Before starting my part-time job, I would find my way through gridlock traffic to shop at the Nordstrom location in Paramus, New Jersey, even though Manhattan was just a quick train ride away. That Nordstrom felt more like walking into an old friend’s house than the stuffy vibe of the upscale department stores on Fifth Avenue.

At any Nordstrom location, I could breathe a fresh-from-the-factory aroma mixed with perfume and waxed floors, and be transported back in time when I was a little girl holding my grandma Shirley's hand hand up the escalator. Whether she was volunteering for the Friends of the Library or picking me up for the day in her Oldsmobile, my grandma always wore slacks and a merino turtleneck with a bright matching scarf fashioned around her neck, clip-on earrings, and maybe a brooch.

Having lived through the Great Depression, my grandma didn’t wear expensive brands or spend money frivolously, but I gleaned at an early age that every day was worth “putting your face on” with makeup and a stylish, coordinated outfit. At the store, she would purchase an Estée Lauder lipstick. Or we would simply admire beautiful items without buying anything.

I grew up in a Seattle suburb, and sometimes the pace of adult life in New York City overwhelmed me. As soon as I swung the door open from the second-floor parking garage at the Nordstrom in Paramus, my posture relaxed. For a brief time, the scene in front of me felt easy and predictable.

Working at the store, however, was different from an occasional retail therapy visit. Knowing I would save 20 percent on top of my full-time job paycheck made me feel like I was on a Kardashian budget when I most certainly wasn’t. Decisive customers would swipe thousands of dollars on their credit card in minutes, doing “serious damage” as we called it. I felt like I was doing pretty well compared to them. I would mull over items I saw on display during my free time, which would prove expensive. I told myself I would catch up with all my charges. Later.

Now, my trips to the store were characterized by a 20-minute search for a parking spot, getting my purse searched every time I clocked out, and encouraging others to open a store credit card like me.

My feet ached from zigzagging through the store most of the day, and I was grateful for my 15-minute break ritual of visiting my favorite merch in the store with a $6 iced latte in hand. As I ran my fingers over the logo of a pair of Tory Burch flats on display, the women’s shoes salesperson winked at me and moved on to an approaching customer.

I remained standing there in growing want. A familiar knot rose from my stomach to my chest. I need more comfortable shoes for work. I had to have these shoes because I couldn’t wear just any brand working in a department store. So what if they cost a full day’s pay? With my discount, I was saving on something that would last long after I finished working a few months.

Mostly convinced of my logic, I returned after my shift to purchase the classic black ballet-style flats with a gold buckle. Saddled with my shopaholic math and the promise of credit card points that would give me more money to later spend, I walked out beaming. I deserved these shoes.

Growing up in America, my milestones were consumer events: every birthday and holiday, high school and college graduations, when I moved in with roommates, when I got a new job. I spent money because I needed, earned, or deserved it. I didn’t know how to celebrate or prepare for transitions without buying more stuff. Around 6 percent of the U.S. population struggles with compulsive shopping, according to a study in the journal World Psychiatry.

One day, a person in human resources called to ask me if I was open to working over at a Nordstrom Rack location for a couple of days. Ummm. Heck yeah! Nordstrom Rack is akin to T.J. Maxx or Saks Off 5th. They carry designer brands and stock discounted items. Knowing it was a limited-time offer made the prospect of working there even more exciting.

I parked my sedan that I still owed payments on and strolled through the front door like a bride-to-be at Kleinfeld. I drew my breath in as I surveyed wall-to-wall bargains to be discovered. Now, this was the definition of saving by spending. I started a pile of my own in a corner of the dressing room. When I saw markdowns and red labels on sales tags, I added them to my heap in between cleaning out dressing rooms and organizing. I calculated my discount as I scooped up tops, skirts, and pants.

At the end of my shift, I plopped my pile on top of the cash wrap counter to check out. By the time I trudged multiple bags to my car, my mood had deflated a little. Groaning, I faced the fact that I had spent more than five times what I had made in wages for the weekend. I was now outspending anything I earned working part-time.

The brand names were a fraction of the cost. But there was a hefty price to pay for my obsession with getting a discount. My trunk was full, but I felt empty inside. The meager paychecks coming to my mailbox paired with my shopping tastes made skipping out on dinner plans with friends for my part-time job less appetizing. I slumped next to my bed with bags still in my trunk. The earlier euphoria now turned to guilt and shame.

I had loved shopping since I was 12, when I got my first job folding and boxing clothes at my neighbor’s shop and first experienced the thrill of spending my own money. But something had to change. My husband thought someone had stolen my credit card. I told him I planned to return some items. Many of my coworkers could show up, sell, and go home. I wasn’t one of them.

As I drove to work on another hot New Jersey day, I realized that my car’s air-conditioning was broken, prompting me to shout a few f-bombs to no one in particular. There was no relief as I drove with my windows down, sweat dripping down my back. A police officer seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the side of the road. I held my breath at the sight of him waving me to pull me over. As I looked around, I realized I was one of dozens of drivers stopped for driving in a left exit lane that looked like a regular lane on Route 17.

I felt trapped. The officer handed me a $450 ticket through the window. I wiped away tears and sweat. I just wanted to go home and be done with everything. I hated that I wasn’t being open with my husband, who would joke about me putting in a day’s work when he knew I was also going to buy more stuff. I dialed him from the side of the road and apologized. He said he was glad I was okay and that it was just a ticket. My breathing slowed from his kind, sweet words. It wasn’t just the ticket I felt sorry about.

I reflected on why I went down this path. My husband and I had been married for mere months. Planning my wedding, as many brides can relate, became a part-time job. Most brides are happy when the wedding planning is finally over. Strangely, I missed it.

I got a little carried away with all the must-haves for my once-in-a-lifetime event, such as an open bar and candy spread. Buying pretty things felt safe and fun. Settling into daily life and learning to be more vulnerable with someone I felt I couldn’t live without, well, now that felt a little scary.

One evening when I wasn’t working, my husband and I went out for dinner with some friends. We joked on the subway and laughed our way through the evening. When we got off the train for our stop, my husband pulled me in close for a kiss. I realized he was loving me in real ways every day. Instead of letting it land, I shrugged it off because it overwhelmed me.

My husband had been there for me all along, and I was running for the door to go buy more stuff. I would learn later through counseling why I struggled to receive his love. I felt in these moments that I wanted to let go of my obsession with things to grab hold of more time with him. Working in a retail role felt safe. I experienced short, fun interactions with people. I never had to get deep. I wrapped myself in excessive spending and materialism like a comfortable old sweater. However, the shame and guilt became worse than the high price on the ticket.

As I scrambled eggs the next morning, I told my husband I couldn’t handle the temptation of my second job. I clocked in for the last time a few weeks later and felt hopeful that by spending more time with people I loved, I’d feel more at home in my new life.

A few months later, I picked through my closet and stuffed a laundry basket-size heap of old clothes into plastic bags bound for a local women’s charity — except for one newish thing. I pulled out my Tory Burch flats and tucked them into a used Nordstrom bag for my friend. I had bought them for comfort, but they never quite fit me right. The gold logo had lost its shine for me. Seeing her gush over her new shoes made letting go of them and my career in retail much easier.

Megan Thompson is a San Francisco-based writer, parenting coach, and mother of five.

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