I don't want to "shop like a billionaire"
'Underconsumption core' and the value-action gap to going green
I’ve spent a few years now pointedly ignoring the claims that I can “shop like a billionaire” on sites like Shein or Temu. I’m not going to pretend to have unique insight into what billionaires might purchase, but I’m willing to bet it isn’t a $0.71 fake septum ring or a $5 watermelon slicer. Of course, billionaires come in all forms— from Warren Buffet’s wife, Astrid, who infamously complained about the price of $4 coffee to Elon Musk traipsing around the world in a $70 million private jet. But what these advertisements try to tap into is the idea that we, too, can purchase whatever we want without fear of consequence.
Of course, the most immediately obvious consequence of flinging $1 bills into the digital abyss is the impact on our pocketbooks and homes. But there’s also the consequences to workers, ecosystems, and the environment.
This past week, I sat with an absurd amount of existential dread after Googling how much plastic Amazon produces in a given year. Prime Days conveniently fell in the middle of the summer, in what would otherwise be, well, a non-holiday spending wise. But it’s a teensy bit ironic that Prime Days spent the week competing for news space with Plastic Free July (until, of course, Kamala Harris dominated every news cycle, period.) And please know, the term “competing” is used in only the loosest possible sense; Google Trends nifty little graphing feature that allowed me to compare the popularity of different search terms tells me that… uh, Prime Deals won in a landslide.
At the same time, though, consumers purport to care about sustainability more than ever before. I have no doubt that consumers do, in fact, have more awareness and concern than they did even a few years ago— but perhaps our ideals aren’t quite matching with our actual behavior. Researchers often talk about the difference between what we say we want and what we actually do as a value-action gap.
Take these figures, for example:
“78% of consumers feel that sustainability is important. 55% of consumers are willing to pay more for eco-friendly brands. 84% of customers say that poor environmental practices will alienate them from a brand or company.”
If these numbers were even remotely matched with behavior, then Temu— home of plastic junk produced by forced labor and no regulatory oversight for product safety or environmental responsibility— wouldn’t have over 100 million users in the United States and wouldn’t reign supreme as the UK’s most used shopping app. And in a serious twist of irony, Amanda Mull at The Atlantic noted that “individuals who shop at fast-fashion website Shein are “considerably more likely to express concern about the environment and sustainability than shoppers overall.”
Or this: “68% of global consumers say they would be willing to reduce their consumption by half to avoid environmental damage and/or climate change. When broken down by region, the willingness is higher (78%) in Africa and the Middle East, and lowest (58%) in North America.”
Woah. Take a walk down your street, or a quick scroll through your phone contacts. Are half of the people you know vacating their 2,500 square foot home in favor of tiny homes? Are they eliminating frivolous shopping, boycotting Amazon, or establishing capsule wardrobes? I didn’t think so.
It’s easy to say we want to make better decisions, but a record-breaking Amazon Prime week says we aren’t actually following through.
Value-Action Gap, or Barriers?
As a Forbes article pointed out, maybe it isn’t so much a gap as it is barriers.
Cost barriers. Convenience barriers. Knowledge (or, really, greenwashing) barriers.
Some of these barriers are very real. I’m not, for example, ever going to suggest that someone struggling to afford their groceries or rent prioritize paying more for diapers just to support a B Corp. I will be the first to tell you that reducing plastic in places like your kitchen is a combination of effort and access— intentions matter, but so does the existence of structural things like bulk bins or loose produce at the grocery store.
Some of these decisions, too, are the result of privilege. Being able to choose organic over conventionally grown, for example, comes with an undoubtedly higher price tag at the grocery store— a luxury decision, if you will, that is out of reach for the 12% of American households who experience food insecurity.
But I can’t shake the feeling that some of these barriers to more sustainable decision-making are framed as bigger obstacles than they really are.
You can’t convince me that 30% of packaging entering the United States are from Shein or Temu because we are meeting basic necessities (but by all means, if you know someone buying their shampoo and groceries in this manner, do share in the comments).
But we can make this story even more straightforward. I very rarely see others bring reusable bags to the grocery store— until a township starts charging 10 cents a bag, or removes plastic bags altogether. Suddenly, the 10 cents matters quite a bit, and the tiniest of incentives gets people to do what all the #PlasticFreeJuly hashtags seem to fall short of accomplishing: convincing people to change their behavior.
Do we need to tell a hero story?
Sustainability will never win out if we frame it as an uphill battle, or an inconvenience to be endured.
I feel personally skeptical of stories that frame consumers as the hero, applauding us for making more sustainable purchases. I most often see this story as an advertisement for a consumer brand that may be pure greenwashing, or may be legitimately trying to do ‘good’ for people and the planet. But I know plenty of people who struggle with the dopamine hit of clicking “add to cart” (and before you jump to judge, if you aren’t getting your dopamine from shopping, you might be scrolling or caffeinating your way to that dopamine hit. The brain is fun like that)— and I think that framing the consumer as the hero for more "sustainable” shopping has the potential to be a free pass to stay on the consumerist hamster wheel, just with “greener” products.
There are many small and sustainable brands I love and recommend. But that doesn’t change the fact that the most sustainable thing I can do is to simply not shop. Even the most necessary and most intentional purchases still contribute packaging, greenhouse gases, and potentially an eventual life in a landfill to the environmental crisis.
For all my wariness about the hero story, I don’t want to pretend that it isn’t effective marketing. We all want to feel good about ourselves— and the statistics are clear that we need something more than good intentions to make an effective change. So is the answer telling a hero story about simply consuming less?
The New York Times suggested that the latest TikTok trend is what’s been dubbed “underconsumption core,” a shift away from influencer culture towards re-use. TikToks humble brag of wearing the same sneakers until they fall apart, using up products before purchasing new, or embracing a simplified shower routine.
Of course, any trend towards more mindful consumption is a cause for celebration, but there are some limitations to this trend. For one, dubbing it “underconsumption core”— a la “cottage core” or even “clutter core”— suggests that this is a temporary design aesthetic that will go the way of Crocs and skinny jeans. Not to mention, the exact same force— inflationary pressure of the last few years— is seemingly responsible for both underconsumption core and the unfettered purchase of Temu trinkets. I’m curious what personality traits and life experiences encourage someone to choose “underconsumption core” rather than embrace the “shop like a billionaire” ethos of Temu. But if this trend is truly born out of inflationary pressure and not a deeper value shift, will consumers jump to buy more as soon as they feel able? (It’s also worth noting that Americans, at least, have largely continued record levels of discretionary spending despite inflationary pressures).
Calling the trend ‘underconsumption’ also suggests participants are somehow consuming less than necessary or expected, when in fact if you are a resident of the United States, Europe, China, or South Korea, among dozens of other nations, you are actually consuming well beyond what the planet can handle— even if your lifestyle doesn’t remotely resemble that of celebrities or influencers.
Perhaps as a result, underconsumption core feels performative (really, in the same way everything on social media feels performative). I’m not convinced it will bridge the value-action gap, but perhaps the story it tells— that of less consumption as not only socially acceptable, but perhaps even virtuous— will at least keep people from pretending they can shop like billionaires.
I have found that I have to make things I want to do (in order to make a difference) very easy to do. Like putting a folds up tiny grocery bag into my purse instead of expecting myself to remember to bring the bags when I walk to the store. If I'm forced to buy a reusable plastic bag I really reuse it too!
Excellent Article. Notably, living in the rural Midwest, I too have noticed next to no one using reusable shopping bags. I have a collection of bags stored in a basket in my car and strive to use them every time. Most carts I see on my monthly grocery trips are crammed full of junk thrown into plastic bags for the haul home. Reusable bags are easy so I just do not get our nation wide addiction to plastic bags.