Is Owning “Nice Things” Making Your Life Worse?

I loved my first car. It was a 2004 Acura TL, handed down to me from my automotive-obsessed father. He used my 16th birthday as an excuse to buy a (used) BMW and pawn off his Acura on his ecstatic teenage daughter. Mary, the frugal overlord of House Gatti, was onboard with the plan, making it even more attractive.

The car had over 100,000 miles and was about 8 years old when it was given to me, so it was well past its prime—but it was a car, and a pretty cool one. It had some door dings, the leather seats were ripped up, and there were coffee stains on the floor mats in the backseat from my dad's rowdy ride-group pals.

More memorable, though, than being given the keys to the TL, was the day I was handed the keys to my 2017 Acura RDX. It felt like a dream come true.

In the time I owned the TL, it was hit while parked on the road—taking on about $3,000 in body repair work. Because the car wasn't even worth $3,000 at the time of the accident and we had JUST taken collision insurance off, we didn't fix it. I drove around with a bashed rear end for almost a year.

To be honest, if it had gotten hit again, suffered a smoothie spill, or smelled like an old yoga mat, I wouldn't have cared. The car's purpose was to take me from point A to point B. I didn't care much about its condition. I think it got maybe one proper car wash after the accident.

Everything changed when the RDX came into the picture.

It promptly earned a garage spot, exiling my mom's practical Subaru to the driveway when I'd visit home. Free street parking? No. No way. Pricey covered parking (or, at least, a proper lot) was the only place for my baby.

There was even an incident my college friends love to remind me of in which I took them out for tacos about a week after I got my car, and I made all of them wash their hands after eating before getting back into the car so as not to grease up the handles and interior. (I've since abandoned this demand.)

So while I loved my RDX, it carries a whole different set of stressors than my didn't-care-much-TL.

Why? Because that TL was worth about $2,000. The RDX was probably worth around $30,000, nearly 15x the value of my old car.

I would pay to have it washed monthly, so that's a 30-minute task at $20/pop. It required the more expensive Premium gas—you can bet your butt I was putting regular in the TL. I rarely parked it on the street and, when it incurred its first door ding in a Target parking lot, I was distraught. My insurance went from $600/year to $1,500/year, because there was more to insure.

This highlights an important point about luxury goods: It's never just the UPFRONT higher cost. Every cost you incur down the metaphoric road is higher, too.

I hope you can see where I'm going with this: The more you own, the more owns you.

There's an odd liberation to owning low-value stuff. To driving a shitty car. Sure, everyone, pile in with your dirty shoes! Workout friends with sweaty clothes on? Welcome! Let's all eat a four-course meal in my sedan.

When you own, say, a $50,000 BMW, you're probably going to think twice about parking it in a tight spot. You're probably going to buy the nicest gas. You'll probably pay to get it washed and buy the highest-premium insurance and take it to the dealer for the most expensive maintenance.

Imagine getting in an accident with a new $50,000 car and how much worse that would feel than a used one worth $15,000.

But it's not just cars and other things of that scale—consider a designer handbag. When I got my job offer, I drove straight to Louis Vuitton and purchased a $1,300 Neverfull I'd been lusting after for as long as I can remember. This bag, oddly, represented the pinnacle of wealth and success to my 22-year-old self. Chic, beautiful, rich women carried them (and young women my age with chic, beautiful, rich parents). I had to have one!

(I used it a lot when I first got it, but it turns out tote bags are not all that practical or comfortable for every day life.)

When I took a $700 Louis Vuitton crossbody bag to a Cowboys game, it was one inch (ONE INCH!) too big to be taken into the stadium. The security man informed me I'd have to walk it all the way back to my car before entering.

So there I was, walking the half mile back to the parking lot as the game started and Amari Cooper caught a touchdown pass—losing my $10 beer buzz—to drop off my fancy purse.

I passed women facing the same decision at security, taking their wallets and phones out of their $20 Mossimo purses and throwing them in the garbage, continuing merrily into the stadium.

It was a moment where I really asked myself — 

What's the point of owning something so fancy and expensive that, even when it majorly inconveniences you, it's too prohibitively valuable to simply discard and move on?

​Without question, there are definitely times you get more for your money.

And a lot of the time, it's a balancing act—if you buy stuff that's TOO cheap it'll just need to be constantly replaced and cause more of an inconvenience as you spend money and time fixing or replacing it.

But it's almost like that rule for what to bring in checked luggage: Don't buy anything that you'd be too devastated to lose.

There's middle ground between a broken-down Chevy Impala and a new fully loaded Range Rover. There's middle ground between a canvas tote bag and a Louis Vuitton one.

You can still be satisfied with your purchases without buying on the Kardashian end of the spectrum, and I'd argue you'll be happier in the long-run when you detach from the notion that the more expensive always = better.

Consumerism tells us that nicer things will make us happier, but remember who profits from you believing you need to splurge on the fancy car—the car company, the insurance company, upscale car washes... the list goes on. The person at the bottom of that beneficiary list, often, is you.

Katie Gatti Tassin

Katie Gatti Tassin is the voice and face behind Money with Katie. She’s been writing about personal finance since 2018.

https://www.moneywithkatie.com
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