There is a store that doesn’t exist anymore, except in my dream-memories, where I wished so badly to find a 90s ToyBiz Nightcrawler that this humble store’s layout is seared into my imagination. Was this store the boarding point of my hoarding viewpoint? What if I had found that toy? When I found its grown-up brother, itself almost a legend because of its under-production and character popularity, I looked it over, then made my decision.
Let’s not rush that look-over.
In life, we’re in such a rush to do everything that certainly we shouldn’t spare the time for wasters, however, leaning too much into efficiency has caused us to sacrifice our thoughts in the name of appearing busy. If we’ve only got a minute to consider buying something in person, we’re more likely to buy it just because it’s there, rather than if we really need it. Especially for a special, limited-time object like this that will certainly increase in price and value, the attitude is to buy now and sell later, regardless of whether we actually want to connect with it.
I communed with this Nightcrawler.
I looked over its heads – three is an impressive value – and saw not one that I liked. I looked over its paint-job – the black paint seared an impression where the value of rush was considered more than the value of quality – and saw nothing I liked. I looked over its packaging – an extra arm to encourage buying the whole set – and saw nothing I liked. I looked over its totality – how would I display it? where would I put it now? how about in a month? where would it end up next year? where’s my original? – and saw not one reason to keep it that I liked.
I left it on the front peg for another.
I don’t consider this burying my childhood, or neglecting the inner child that eagerly went to that store to perhaps buy a specific toy. This was not that. Besides, I already own two of that specific toy. I will eventually sell off a majority of these collections and I may only keep this one, if any, because I’ve already achieved so much material success; if anything, hoarding proves that. It’s not that I’ve acquired everything I’ve ever wanted, but I value what I own so much that whenever I browse through stores now, there’s rarely anything that calls out to me.
I thought of buying a snowglobe a few hours ago.
A mindfulness lesson I learned once was shaking a snowglobe and watching as the chaos calmed both physically in there and mentally around you. I’d been idly searching for one – the right one – and nearly did in the gaudy store I found myself in, except, just like the Nightcrawler of my memories that I had wanted to buy in that dream-memory store, what I was holding wasn’t the one I’d imagined helping me through my anxieties.
For both the snowglobe and both Nightcrawlers, they’re just objects.
|Sources: My personal experiences.|
|Inspirations: Going to two stores and passing on two objects I had thought I wanted, only to realize I’d only wanted them, and not needed them for increasing value to my lifestyle. Groceries do that. Certain objects do that too. It’s just, unfortunately, I had forgotten the value of the special object in favor of the common object. Which is why I’m still writing these Downsizing Zeal essays.|
|Related: Other Downsizing Zeal essays.|
|Photo: A toy aisle 30 minutes after this store opened. I have enough self-awareness to know it’s weird taking photographs in stores like this, but I don’t care. Just as long as I’m not weird. The photo below was taken on a Sunday morning before 8am.|
|Written On: October 10th [38 minutes, from 3:50am to 4:28am with mild researching in between which is why I subtracted some minutes, WordPress]|
|Last Edited: October 10th [First draft; final draft for the Internet. Did a quick WordCounter keyword density check and felt content with it.]|