When stress and anxiety attack, here’s where she turns for affordable retail therapy

I like stuff. Some might call me materialistic — a shopaholic, even. And to those who say, “Money can’t buy happiness,” I beg to differ.

I was raised by a frugal and minimalist mother who worked hard to combat my tendencies to accumulate. She attempted to treat me with therapies such as embarrassing teenage-me in stores by announcing loudly, “That’s too expensive!” or, “You don’t need that.”

She admonished me for coming home with heavy bags of clothing I’d purchased for cents on the dollar from outlet stores’ clearance racks. She attempted to instill reason into me by asking, “And where are you going to keep that?” or “Do you really need more stuff?”

But mom is also an artist who appreciates things of value. She studied interior design in college, and although she didn’t pursue design for long, has always had an eye and appreciation for aesthetics and items of value. She decorated our home with interesting art and antiques, occasionally splurging on high-quality, sturdy furniture built to last. She created a surrounding that has changed little, yet somehow is not dated.

Her wisdom eventually sank in and my pursuit of fast fashion faded. Cheap, flimsy items made to be disposable lost their appeal, and chasing trends felt like conforming to someone else’s arbitrary rules, devoid of my personal style. Mom’s advice for curating a style also took hold — to only have things that I really like, and not to worry about matching color or style. She assured me that eclectic is good, and that my personal appreciation of any item would ensure that a common thread of some sort would emerge and tie everything together.

But despite inheriting the cheapskate gene and absorbing my mom’s good advice of being selective about my belongings, several things set us apart. For one, I like rotating my decor occasionally. And the biggest difference is that I like to shop.

Courageously curating a collection of curious clutter is my sport. I am a trophy hunter on a quest for valuable treasure. Yet as a penny pincher, my hunting ground is limited, and my biggest victories are found in second-hand stores, auctions and bargain bins. I cannot premeditate my hunt, and my reflexes must be quick.

An expedition for a blue lamp could take days and result in a blue lamp that I may or may not care for. But an open-minded search for “something for that corner” can result in great victory in the form of a clearance-shelf monkey, a colorful cross stitch or a cheaply acquired vase painted by an acclaimed student of Pablo Piccaso. All for less than $20.

I also self-soothe with retail therapy, a strong elixir and powerful distraction. If anxiety, stress or sadness chomp stress-shaped holes out of my well-being, I sometimes steal away alone to wander thrift store aisles, looking for other peoples’ discarded memories that might just be the right shape to fill the voids and patch my mood. High-stake challenges feel somehow more surmountable with a funny, garage-sale, bauble-head armadillo at my side.

I’ve learned to trust my gut, let my impulses tell me if an item should come home with me, if the price is one I’m willing to pay, and if it deserves a spot in my life, if only for a while. If I second-guess and hesitate, other treasure hunters can swoop in and claim my missed trophies for their own. I recently left a thrift store without purchasing a gigantic shelf shaped like a bird. Suffering non-buyer’s remorse, I returned a bit later, only to find it had been bought by someone else.

“It’s for your own good, mom,” my daughter said, ”they saved you from yourself.”

Maybe one day I’ll have my own booth at a little junk store, presenting my finds for others to enjoy, providing myself an excuse to continue scouring other peoples’ discards to perpetuate the revolving circle of stuff. I’ll stock beautiful and amusing things, perfect for blank walls and empty corners, the perfect sizes to plug up gushing moods. And I will carefully price them to be the exact right value for their new homes.

Emily Parnell lives in Overland Park and can be reached at emily@emilyjparnell.com.