Buying Unexperiences

I’ve seen a lot floating around the interwebs when it comes to advice about money and spending. Especially in minimalism leaning spaces, folks are often repeating the phrase “buy experiences, not things”. This is often followed up with advice for budgeting for trips, dining out, and other such experience-based activities.

On the surface this seems like a pretty simple concept. Why add more clutter to an environment where one’s decided simplicity is calmer and money is better spent elsewhere (especially when actively minimizing possessions is still on the goal list). 

I struggled with this concept recently while making a substantially large purchase for a thing. I had decided that once my house was sold, I would use some of the money towards this expensive purchase. The money wasn’t being used for a trip, or any other sort of vacation budgeting. Not even a fancy romantic dinner or a family visit (hard no to traveling to see family in this time of covid). It was, instead, budgeting for a new item. Yup. Me, who is in the middle of an ongoing effort to give things away. I was absolutely budgeting for a thing. Another object to add to my home.

I’m in the midst of decluttering (and learning not to therapy-shop), and not only was I thinking of spending a ton of money, I was thinking of spending it on another thing instead of an experience.

But wait. It turns out my conundrum wasn’t so cut-and-dry on the hypocritical side. The item in question? A flushing litter box. I will be the first to admit it is ridiculously expensive. Old me would have scoffed at spending so much money on what seemed like an overpriced pet luxury item. How utterly frivolous and self-indulgent, old me would say. Old me didn’t have the full picture.

The truth is, this was absolutely about buying an experience. And also about buying the lack of an experience. Buying unexperiences, if you will.

I’ve been coming to terms over the last 6 months or so with the concept that my general anxiety level is a bit extra, and probably always will be. If it were a person, she would be wearing Uggs and glitter tights while she stood in line waiting for her double shot pumpkin spice latte topped with whipped cream and then sprinkled with extra spice. And to make that even more extra, sometimes she brings a friend to the party: some mopey dude with dyed black hair, and circles under his eyes. He bemoans existence, and is often seen writing morose poetry in an old graveyard. I like to call him Deppy—short for Depression. Sometimes they hang out solo, sometimes they tag-team.

So why am I bringing up my anxiety (and companion depression) in relation to this absolutely ridiculously overpriced litter box? Because this year there have been many more days than not that I have gotten home from work drained of all motivation. Cooking? No. Cleaning? Ha. Writing? Oh god… why can’t I write? Painting? But.. the starting. And the clean-up. Everything becomes overwhelming, and I just kind of shutdown a little (or a lot). And this tends to bleed over into everything else I both want to do or need to do, including scooping the litter box daily (anyone who has cats knows this is “a need to do” rather than a “want to do”).

The litter box struggle doesn’t just affect me. It definitely affects my two brilliantly diabolical cats (Tesla and Edison). And the smell absolutely affects my partner (I think… I mean, probably? Seems like it would). 

So, I bought the box. I still feel a bit guilty for the expense of it. But, that said, I would not undo the purchase. 

I was super anxious (hah!) the first several days, wondering if Edison was going to reject it (Tesla took to it immediately). Luckily, he eventually gave in and accepted the change. And since then, I’ve had a virtually hands-free litter box, two cats happy with the perpetual cleanness, and both my partner and I have happily remained unassailed by litter box stench. With this addition to our home, I have one less thing gnawing away at my anxious brain. And in the end, that’s what minimalism is about for me; removing as much of the clutter and distraction and worry —to reduce my anxiety — so I can move forward and do the things I want to do, as well as the things I need to do.

So for me, it turns out that sometimes minimalism can mean adding something new to the environment if it genuinely brings value. And believe me when I say that having a magically self-cleaning litter box has added immense value to my life (and to those of my cats and my partner). Buying the unexperience of litter box scooping (and removing one source of anxiety): worth it. Completely worth it.

TL;DR: Not today, pumpkin spice latte glitter tights! Not today!