Assuming you don’t live under a rock, I can say with roughly 99 percent confidence that everyone has seen the JustFab shoe commercials. It sounds great; a new pair of shoes every month for $39.95. I mean, what’s not to love? Plus, the first time you sign up you get two pairs for the $39.95 price tag. It’s like a shoe lover’s wet dream, am I right?
I had a friend that got me hooked on JustFab. The premise behind the website is that once you sign up, every month your card is automatically credited $39.95 unless you buy something. You don’t have to buy something worth that amount; instead, you just need to make a purchase. If you don’t, your card is charged and you ‘bank’ that much money to spend at another point. I was initially hesitant; did I really want to make a commitment to spending almost $40 every month? The selling point for me was that you can ‘skip’ any month. Just go into your account, skip the month and you don’t get charged and you don’t have to spend anything. I was sold. So I did the only rational thing I could think of and immediately signed up. I was gifted with two gorgeous pairs of heels: a pair of strappy, tan, suede booties and a pair of caged black, fuck-me pumps. I was in love.
After my initial purchase, I told myself that I was going to skip the next month. It’s not like I need any more shoes. A conservative estimate on how many shoes I own is somewhere around 75 pairs. When I was re-organizing my closet, I counted how many pairs of black heels I had – 19 pairs. Someone explain to why any 22-year-old who isn’t a celebrity needs 19 pairs of black heels because I’ve been searching for a viable answer to get my mother off my back. But I digress. The point is that it’s not like I was going to be walking around barefoot any time soon.
The next month came and I logged into my account to skip the month. But while I was there, I just decided to browse for a little. What’s the harm? I have self-control. It’s not that difficult to say no. And then I came across the most gorgeous pair of gray, suede booties with fringe detailing. So cute, so versatile and oh so cheap. The shoes would go with everything, I reasoned to myself. In my head, I did the fucked up shopaholic math:
- If I wear the shoes every day for 40 days, then I’ve essentially just spent a dollar a day.
- $40 is four trips to Chipotle. So I’ll just cook at home a little extra to make up for it.
- I can pick up an extra waitressing shift this week and make enough to buy three pairs of shoes.
The conclusion? The shoes were worth it. So I gave in and bought them. The next month, it was the same internal debate, except this time with a suede pair of nude, half-d’Orsay heels.
- These are perfect for when I graduate and start working my big-girl job. Buying these shoes is an investment in my future.
The month after that, I couldn’t turn down a pair of lace-up, snakeskin heeled sandals.
- These heels are the ideal way to dress-up sun dresses and would look phenomenal with a pair of boyfriend jeans. Plus, I don’t own anything like them.
For the last ten months, it’s been the same thing. I have the best of intentions every time. This is the month I’ll skip and save money, I tell myself. But deep down I know it won’t happen. I’m an addict, but I don’t live for the altered state provided by drugs or alcohol. I live for the compliments and the envious glances. I live for the ‘Oh my god, where did you get those shoes!’ and the ’You have to let me borrow them!’ from friends and strangers alike. I live for coming home from a long day of work or school and seeing that box on my doorstep, knowing I’m about to unwrap a new best friend.
I want to stop, I really do. I think about how much money I’ve spent so far and how much I’ll continue to spend and it makes me crazy. But rationality can’t see me through this. They say the first step in overcoming a problem is admitting you have one, so here goes:
My name is [name redacted] and I have a shoe addiction. .
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