I bought a little keep-cup last week, one of those 8 oz glass to-go cups that are perfect for a latte or a flat white. Walking home sipping a hot chocolate out of my new item, any drop of retail-therapy satisfaction I felt was drowned out by guilt. This is just how I feel when I buy anything I can’t digest now. A lot of it is financial: I don’t have any budget to throw around these days and the act of buying a €24 cup whose only purpose is making it easier to purchase more €3 hot beverages feels so irresponsible. But the bigger source of guilt is environmental: anything in packaging, anything brand new, or that I haven’t needed for some time stresses me out to even think about buying.
There is, of course, a positive side to this discriminating environmental consumerism. Considering purchases so carefully has allowed me to develop personal relationships with the things I own. The clothing I get is primarily thrifted or gifted so everything has a little story to it, and making rudimentary repairs with a sewing kit allows things to stay usable for years.
There is an emotional level to these connections. My bike, more than anything, exemplifies this. The thing is 10 years older than I am and I lugged it all the way across the ocean from Brooklyn. Every time I oil its chain or re-tighten the shifter screw that keeps coming loose, our relationship develops.
It’s a contradictory way to think: an anti-materialism developed out of care for materials. I feel a little bad buying a keep cup because, even though I have a use for it, they’re also a bit trendy and that makes me worry that it doesn’t quite fit authentically into my life. I also think about the insulating silicone band. If the cup were to break, most of it is made from easily recyclable materials, but silicone is much more likely to end up in a landfill.
It is harder to care for things that aren’t made with recyclability, reparability, and durability in mind, because it shows that care wasn’t taken in their manufacture. This care and intention can easily be fetishised, like in the case of Cradle-to-Cradle certified items that use their intentional design as an excuse for a markup. But things don’t need to be rigorously over-designed to be sustainable, they just need to be simple and understandable.
There’s a bit of the KonMari method in this philosophy of caring about and for things, but while Marie Kondo is motivated by simplicity and functionality, it still portrays things as disposable after they break or cease to “spark joy.” In addition to not keeping, or buying in the first place, things that don’t fit in your life, you should also be able to understand how your things work, how to repair or dispose of them properly if they break.
I’m of two minds about things: part of me feels that my guilt and anxiety around purchasing things is a kind of unproductive asceticism that negatively impacts my quality of life. But the awareness, though maybe not its associated anxiety, does help me live (and buy) intentionally. On one hand I hate buying stuff; on the other, I love the things I have. So maybe this little coffee cup can become an important part of my life for years to come—if anything, my receipt should hold me to that commitment.