Uncommon Objects

This is not a gift guide.

I started Christmas shopping early this year.

I hate the entire premise of Thanksgiving and prefer to disregard it entirely. I think it’s retribution from the Indigenous people whom we mock with the holiday that we’re all doomed to overindulge over a table infamous for political and familial tension. As soon as I can wear sweaters in Texas, it’s the most wonderful time of the year, as far as I’m concerned.

I’ve always loved giving people gifts, even before I could afford to do so. I used to make collages or poems for my mom that I would put in frames I pulled off of my own wall. My shopping has only gotten more complicated, however, since she remarried. I struggle to find a gift appropriate for my stepdad—or for her, for that matter. I know they don’t expect anything extravagant from me—our price ranges are, needless to say, different—but they both seem to radiate contentment. What do you get for someone who has everything, when you can’t afford Hermès?

So this Sunday, in a near-constant drizzle that was unfortunately not accompanied by lower temperatures, I trawled one of Austin’s most well-known antique stores, Uncommon Objects. It reminded me of the places in Montrose that my mom and I used to frequent while I was in high school and she was studying nearby at the University of St. Thomas. She’s always had a collector’s eye, and we found some real treasures in those junk shops. I was looking for an objet d’art that would look good on the bookshelves in their new house, and while I didn’t find anything for my stepdad, the place was entertainment enough for a rainy afternoon.

I’ve been preoccupied lately—consumed, even—by material longings.

My friends and I are all obsessed with a Los Angeles influencer named Sally Darr Griffin, who makes lavish purchases on the daily with no clear source of income. Every time she posts, I go full Jerry Maguire: Show me the money! Either she is in extreme consumer debt, or her parents are supporting her to the tune of a self-disclosed $142 spent on Williams-Sonoma peppermint bark. Four tins of peppermint bark, or more than I spend on two weeks of groceries, on a random weekday. I’m rooting for her, but she baffles me.

I’m not the first to bemoan the material culture in which it seems the next purchase will be the thing that saves you. For me, it’s the Freewrite Alpha or a walking pad that are sure to transform my writing and exercise habits, respectively. It is too easy to convince myself that the interest I’ll pay on my credit card is an investment in my own well-being.

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A post shared by @elarroyo_atx

But even more insidious than that, I’ve noticed in myself an interminable longing for the next place or phase in my life. I survived high school by promising myself that things would be different in college. I got through college with the knowledge that it was all in preparation for a successful post-grad life and career. Now I’m here, and I’m still unhappy.

I love my job. In fact, one of the many reasons I was so excited about this job is because it paid a living wage, compared to the sackload of shit for pennies to which I was applying in New York or London. And while my best friends were anxiously job-searching in those cities, I felt so relieved I had already secured what we had all been working toward for so long.

But they’ve both found jobs now. Of course they did; they’re the most brilliant women I know. And I’m in Austin alone—in my own studio apartment, yes, but hundreds and thousands of miles away from my friends.

Sometimes I worry I traded what is most important for the cold comfort of security. On the very same day I accepted my current position, I got my first interview for a publishing job, after more than six months of applying with no response. The irony did not escape me—in fact, it haunts me. Did I give up too early? For the nth year in a row, I’ve pushed back the finish line. If I can just earn enough for an emergency fund—if I can one day move to a bigger city, closer to my friends—if, if, if.

Visions of sugar plums dance in my head every night—and by sugar plums, I mean Pinterest boards full of my ideal image, of wish list items that bring me ever closer to the persona that eludes me. I’ve started keeping a list on my phone, so as to offload my desire before it overtakes me. A credit card and a reliable paycheck are a dangerous combination, and I have to consciously keep myself in check.

Here is a short list of things I have not bought in the past few months: patent black Birkenstocks with gold buckles, bright blue Boston clogs, a slouchy black woven leather work bag, Nutrafol hair growth vitamins, two different styles of Skims bras, a yoga mat, New Balance sneakers, the Catbird 1976 lariat and a hundred other things on their site, a Dedcool perfume sampler, the Songmont Luna convertible purse, the What She Means exhibit catalogue on Joan Didion, Clinique Pink Cherry Almost Lip, Ouai detox shampoo and leave-in conditioner, Olive & June tab manicure kits, every flavor of Anytime Spritz, a Moon List workbook, Adidas Gazelles, the Dyson Airstraight hair dryer/flat iron combination tool.

And that’s just what I remembered to write down.

Here are the things I have charged to my credit card: most of my summer in Paris, half a dozen hardbacks, an eye exam, new glasses and contacts, Glossier Ultralip in Fête and Boy Brow in dark brown, and a $400 pair of boots I’d lusted after for months—that Milo tore up the first day I brought them home.

After finding Milo fang-deep in brand new Nappa leather—and feeling my soul briefly leave my body from sheer rage and disbelief—I texted my mom that this had to be karma. Dave Ramsey himself was smiting me, that fucker, for spending when I should have been saving.

“Well, every time you wear them, you’ll remember,” she responded, mostly kidding, but not entirely. “It will keep you grounded.” Sure enough, I haven’t used my credit cards since, and not just because I’ve had my identity stolen twice(!) this fall. I’ve picked up odd jobs and freelance assignments to make up for my purchases. And though I might say otherwise in moments of weakness, I’m grateful I’ve had to learn to work hard and earn my keep.

I am also grateful for my job, which gives me the privilege of complaining about shoes. I’m making my living as a writer, which I thought for most of my life was likely a pipe dream. I have heath care and clean drinking water, and I never have to worry about my next meal. I know the same is true of my loved ones—and I know this is more than so many can say.

I’m a greedy little pig, I am.

I can still recite countless parables from my evangelical upbringing about money as an idol: the Golden Calf, the camel through the eye of the needle. “For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” “One cannot serve both God and money.” It always rang a little funny to me to memorize these verses in the company of some of the richest kids in all of Houston. One of our youth group summer kickoff parties was at a house that had more than one pool in its palatial backyard. (I just googled that family out of curiosity, and trading websites place the husband’s net worth between 1 and 5 billion. That’s “billion,” with a “b.”)

But I get it now. I sense it in myself—the idolatry—and I wish I could excise it. I’m still trying to work out a healthy balance between ambition and avarice. Not for nothing, Enneagram 5s are known for their chronic scarcity mindset. This means more than just greed: As a 5, I hoard my time, love, energy, knowledge, vulnerability, commitment. I’m just not sure there will be enough to go around.

All of the above, every bit of it, is a part of my “class story,” as Stephanie Danler writes so brilliantly here. I didn’t set out this week to talk about class—but then again, I never really do, and still it emerges as a theme in much of my work.

I’ve been thinking for days about how to end this essay, and I haven’t come up with anything. But my kitten is sleeping atop a pile of my sweaters in the armchair across from me, and for now, that is enough.

FOOD FOR THOUGHT

I was going to link to Madonna’s “Material Girl” and “Money” from Cabaret, but then I remembered “Money, Money, Money” from Mamma Mia—I mean, by ABBA—and decided to make another themed playlist. Thank you again to the brain trust, Mary Shannon and Caitlin, for help on this one, too.

In a mid-draft Instagram procrastination break, this article came across my feed with the title, “I learned the hard way I couldn’t shop my way to a new self”. It’s always nice to get a nudge like that in the middle of the process. I also learned about the phenomenon of “revenge shopping”; I knew about “revenge tourism”—and weathered two seasons of it at the Abbey—but hadn’t thought to connect the phenomenon to other spending trends.

I made these collages this week, and I’m kind of obsessed with them.

I’ve just started reading Wellness by Nathan Hill, and it’s shaping up to be one of my favorite books of 2023, I think. I’m only one part (40 pages or so) in, and I’m hooked, despite the manic pixie dream girl of it all so far. It’s fun to think of Caitlin going to school in the same place as one of the main characters.

I’ll have a year-end reading wrap up for you in the coming weeks.