The very setting of this anecdote is going to mark me as a wanker. I know that, and I’m willing to take the fall in the interests of accurate reportage.
It was at my local farmers market last weekend that I found my resolve on this challenge tested.
This farmers market shouldn’t really tempt much except for my commitment to pescetarianism (oddly not wavering at the sight of a whole roast hog). But last Sunday, yes, last Sunday it was a trial.
None of the edible wares inspired me (plus, I had realised my tendency to transfer purchasing anxieties to non-wearable items by this point), and so I just amused myself at a small stand, looking at a few little funky bibs and bobs. On one corner of the very modest and really rather un-trendy tables was a small selection of wrist warmers and finger-less gloves.
I realise now having written the words “wrist warmers and finger-less gloves”, that this items are of limited utility, but if you would bear with me please.
Resisting these useless items has been the hardest non-action of my challenge so far. For the following reasons:
- I could actually really do with a set of wrist warmers due to the cumbersome short length of my current winter coat.
- The stall holder was a clearly lovely, well-intentioned and non-salesy young honest-to-goodness soft-accented Aussie bloke who probably hadn’t made enough sales that day to cover costs.
- The gloves were alpaca and felt really quite soft. I don’t have anything alpaca.
- (And here’s the worst part) The gloves were made by a Peruvian women’s collective, each individual piece signed by the woman who made them. Aussie Bloke made a point of telling me Raya made this one, and Clara made that, bringing to mind images of downtrodden, yet hopeful and robust ruddy-cheeked Inca women with whom I could express sisterhood and respect for their essential right as human beings to be valued and recompensed for their skill by the simple purchase of an item which I had long felt would be a somewhat useful addition to my wrist/hand wear catalogue.
- The stall will likely not exist after my detox has concluded for it shall then, inshallah, be summer.
As I walked away I felt the big brown llama-esque eyes of Aussie Bloke, and indeed Raya and Clara, boring into my uncaring and stingy back.
But I resisted. And I don’t feel good about it. Worse, even, than pretending at the various cheese wallers’ stalls where I had sampled multiple cheeses that I was actually going to buy any cheese at all.
This opting out of shopping is entirely artificial. Trade is not bad. Buying things is not wrong. It’s involvement in the warping of both these things that I am trying to avoid for the next (ugh) six weeks or so. And in this process the impoverished Peruvian women’s collective gets caught up with the Regent street boutique which brought me to this point. It’s not fair, but that’s not really the point.
(Incidentally, I am working very hard of thinking of ways to get these gloves while not actually breaking my detox. Any suggestions most welcome).
The Detox Diaries 