Somewhere in my closet is a version of me who attends significantly more dinner parties than I do.
She owns beautiful trousers.
She wears heels without complaining.
She has several dresses that require the kind of reservation you make three weeks in advance.
She also appears to have a linen obsession and, judging by one particular section of my wardrobe, spends a considerable amount of time somewhere along the coast of France.
I've never been to the south of France.
But apparently I've packed for it.
And it isn't just clothes.
There are books purchased for the person who reads every night instead of scrolling.
Cookbooks for the person who casually makes dinner from scratch on a Tuesday.
Workout clothes for the person who wakes up early.
Notebooks for the person who journals.
Candles for the person who has a nighttime routine.
And an alarming number of organizational products for a woman who, based on the current state of her junk drawer, has yet to arrive.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
How much of what we buy is for who we are—and how much is for the person we're convinced we're about to become?
The Fantasy Self Has Excellent Taste
We all have one.
The fantasy version of ourselves.
And she's incredibly persuasive.
She whispers to us from fitting rooms and Instagram advertisements.
Buy it. You'll wear it all the time.
She is the reason we own blazers despite working from home.
The reason someone with no upcoming vacation owns four resort dresses.
The reason we buy a $70 water bottle and briefly believe hydration is about to become a defining personality trait.
The fantasy self isn't necessarily richer than we are.
She's just more organized.
More interesting.
More disciplined.
She remembers birthdays.
She finishes books.
She cooks with fresh herbs.
She has people over.
She doesn't have seventeen thousand unread emails.
And somehow, purchasing something that belongs in her life makes us feel slightly closer to becoming her.
We Don't Buy Things. We Buy Possibilities.
Maybe that's why shopping can feel so good.
We're rarely buying just the thing.
We're buying the story attached to it.
The running shoes aren't shoes.
They're I'm becoming someone who runs.
The expensive cookware isn't cookware.
It's I'm going to start cooking beautiful dinners.
The leather tote isn't a bag.
It's I'm becoming the kind of person who walks into meetings looking like she knows exactly what she's doing.
The dress isn't a dress.
It's a candlelit restaurant, a good table, a slightly-too-expensive bottle of wine and someone telling you that you look incredible.
We don't take any of those things home in the shopping bag.
But for a moment, it feels like we do.
And maybe that's why the excitement sometimes disappears so quickly.
Because eventually the beautiful dress is hanging in the closet.
And we're still standing in the kitchen wearing sweatpants.
The Closet Full of Alternate Lives
Closets are fascinating when you really look at them.
They're almost archaeological.
There are pieces from people we've already been.
And pieces for people we never became.
The corporate blazer from the job we thought we'd have.
The jeans from the body we used to have.
The dress from the phase when we were convinced we'd start going out more.
The shoes that are objectively beautiful and practically medieval torture devices.
The coat purchased for a climate we do not live in.
And then there are the things we're saving.
For when we lose weight.
For when we have somewhere nicer to go.
For vacation.
For date night.
For someday.
We own beautiful things and then protect them from our actual lives.
Which seems slightly ridiculous when you think about it.
Because eventually clothes go out of style.
Candles lose their scent.
Wine sits unopened.
The expensive plates stay stacked in the cabinet.
And the ordinary Tuesday we didn't think was special enough becomes five years ago.
Maybe We're Buying Permission
I wonder if sometimes the thing isn't really the problem.
Maybe we're buying ourselves permission.
Permission to change.
Permission to be interesting.
Permission to become softer or louder or more fashionable or more creative.
We think we need the right wardrobe before we can dress differently.
The perfect home before we can host dinner.
The expensive camera before we can take photographs.
The new notebook before we can write.
The gym membership before we can start moving.
The plane ticket before we can become adventurous.
But what if the order is backward?
What if we become the person first?
Wear the dress to dinner at the neighborhood restaurant.
Invite people over while the house is imperfect.
Take pictures on your phone.
Write in the notebook you already have.
Cook badly.
Walk around the block.
Put the expensive glasses on the table for takeout.
Maybe identity isn't something we purchase.
Maybe it's something we practice.
There Is Nothing Wrong With Wanting More
I don't think the lesson is that we should stop buying beautiful things.
That sounds miserable.
Fashion can change how we carry ourselves.
Objects can inspire us.
A beautiful home can make ordinary life feel special.
Sometimes buying the running shoes really does get us running.
Sometimes the lipstick changes the entire night.
Sometimes the coat makes us stand differently.
And sometimes a completely unnecessary handbag brings an unreasonable amount of joy.
I'm comfortable admitting that.
But perhaps there is a difference between buying something because it adds something to our life and buying something because we're hoping it will replace something missing inside it.
One is pleasure.
The other is a promise.
And promises are expensive.
Wear the Good Clothes
Maybe the strangest thing about our fantasy selves is that we're always waiting for them to arrive.
Once we're thinner.
Once we're making more money.
Once we're more confident.
Once the house looks better.
Once work calms down.
Once the kids are older.
Once we finally become the kind of person who deserves the life we've been collecting things for.
But what if they aren't coming?
Not because we've failed.
But because there isn't some dramatically improved person waiting at the end of our lives.
There is just us.
Changing.
Learning.
Getting things wrong.
Getting some things very right.
Buying questionable shoes along the way.
Maybe becoming isn't a transformation.
Maybe it's allowing ourselves to use what we've been saving.
Wear the silk blouse to lunch.
Light the expensive candle.
Open the wine.
Use the nice dishes.
Carry the ridiculous bag to the grocery store.
Book the dinner.
Read three pages of the book instead of waiting for an entire quiet afternoon.
Become slightly overdressed.
Let people into the house before everything is finished.
Because perhaps the person we've been shopping for all this time isn't some future, improved version of ourselves.
Maybe it's just us.
Right now.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
What if instead of buying things for the person we're going to become, we started letting the person we already are have a little more fun?
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