sure. wait. what?

A giant bookstore chain recently announced that it was closing one of its largest shops in the city. Last December, when a toy store shut down, everything was marked down by half. I went to the bookstore today expecting a similar frenzy of discounts but, sadly, I was mistaken.

“Is everything on the shelves still full price?” I asked an associate after noticing that there were no SALE signs on top of the regular shelves.

“Yep,” she said, “but all non-book items are 25% off.”

Dang it. I should’ve known.

After getting clarification, I retreated to an empty aisle and reassessed the four books cradled in the crook of my arm. All four titles were available on Libby; I’d just need to wait my turn to borrow them. Physical books look prettier on Instagram though — especially for those eager to flaunt their cultural capital and literary sophistication — but did I really need new books?

One by one, I returned the books to their shelves, resisting the consumerist allure of shiny new spines. I was honestly impressed with myself. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about spending over $100 on books. Online, sure, I could abandon my cart the moment I saw the total. But in real life? Making decisions pronto? In front of other people? Yikes. I would simply dodge the discomfort by paying anyway.

One time, for instance, I picked up a pair of pants at a consignment store without checking the price tag, only to be shooketh when the cashier told me that my total was $120. “How much are the pants?” I asked, hoping for a mistake.

“Eighty bucks,” she said, casually, as if $80 made perfect sense for secondhand pants.

I could’ve told the cashier, “Sorry, I’ll pass on these,” but I didn’t. I just shrugged off the shock and handed over my credit card. I don’t buy pants that often anyway, I later old myself in consolation.

Another time, I walked into a different consignment store that was so tiny I could tell I was the only customer when I entered. “Good morning,” said the woman behind the counter. She was older, with an Anna Wintour-esque bob and an elegant confidence that made her wrinkles look deliberate and chic.

“Just so you know, our clothes aren’t classified by gender,” she said. “They’re organized by color.”

“Cool,” I said, smiling while wondering if it would be awkward to leave without buying anything. I could see the entire inventory from the entrance — five pairs of shoes and eight sparsely filled clothing racks. Minimalist and classy and not my vibe at all.

I felt Anna Wintour’s twin sizing me up, probably noting my crusty combat boots and greasy, unglamorous hair. Feeling self-conscious, I grabbed the only thing that seemed approachable: a brown cap embroidered with Bless this Mess in neat script. Wooosh went my $25 down the drain.

But today was different. Today, at the bookstore, I paused. I renegotiated with myself. I made a decision, and I made a decision that I was comfortable with instead of caving in. Did I really need new books? No. Did it matter what the associate thought of me and how much I wanted to read those books? Nah.

Not today, self. Not today.