And there I was, spending a precious hour on a weeknight after my daughter was asleep, using a lint roller to excise gnats of fabric from my tights. They were not high quality — another impulse purchase on Instagram — and neither, apparently, was whatever item of clothing produced the lint that stuck to the inside of the tights in the dryer (the culprit is still MIA).
Like many millennials, I grew up at the same time as fast fashion: Clothing came cheap, and trends were just as disposable. In my 20s, I’d swing by H&M and Zara after work to pick up a shirt for Friday night that I might only wear once again. As my disposable income grew, the proliferation of online shopping only amplified this consumption.
I wasn’t alone: Clothing sales doubled from 2000 to 2015, while the average number of wears per item has fallen by more than a third, according to earth.org. The environmental news site says today’s fashion industry accounts for 10 percent of global carbon emissions — that’s more than airlines release. Every couple of years, I’ve donated a massive pile of clothing to a thrift store as some sort of tax-deductible absolution of guilt, though I know most of it ends up in landfills.
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I knew I needed to break my cycle of consumption, so I challenged myself to only purchase five new items of clothing over the course of a year. Why five? That’s the number of new garments allotted per year to achieve target carbon emission reductions by 2030, according to the Hot or Cool Institute, a Berlin-based think tank focused on sustainability. So I made my “five items pledge” — which doesn’t include undergarments and socks — hoping to become a more discerning consumer and to learn how to take better care of my garments.
But first, it was January in Boston, and I needed black tights for the office. After copious research, I splurged on two pairs that claimed to be indestructible. The first thing I did when they arrived was check the care instructions: Cold wash, in a bag, no dryer. This was going to take work.
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I quickly discovered that I could get much higher quality if I bought used garments and accessories, either through used clothing stores, or online resellers such as Poshmark. I combed through thrift store racks, hunting for labels with a reputation for quality, and closely examined stitching with a newly attentive eye. Each find became precious, and I was proud of its origin story. (Plus, used clothing didn’t count against my limit of five new items.)
Thrifting became a family activity: We’d swing by the Savers in West Roxbury for an hour on a weeknight, looking at clothes while our 4-year-old played with the used toys in the back. On vacations, we’d see what the thrift or vintage scene was like — and get a sense of the local culture, too.
By spring, I had fully embraced the chase: In the rare times that I desired a new garment, I’d look for it first on another online resale platform. If I didn’t find it, the impulse would usually pass within a couple of days. I took Instagram and Facebook off my phone to avoid extra temptations.
I was doing very well until late April — the last weekend of classes for my two-year master’s degree. In the joy of the moment, I went to the campus store and purchased three new items emblazoned with my new alma mater’s logo. Later, I was mortified: How could I spend the majority of my annual clothing budget on a single trip? I’ve since worn one of those purchases — a blue sweatshirt — many, many times, and barely put on the other two.
The next few weeks were even more challenging: I badly wanted a new dress for graduation — something celebratory to match the mood. I carried a berry dress around Nordstrom Rack for a long time, but finally put it back. I’d be wearing a gown for most of the day, so I could make something in my closet work. I should have rented an outfit — a much more sustainable solution — but I didn’t have that foresight at the time.
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It was September before I purchased my next new garment: a pair of black knit pants for work. By that point, I was well versed in area thrift stores, and knew how to negotiate with online sellers. I’d learned to better care for the garments I already owned, and visited my dry cleaner more frequently. I figured out how to sew a button, that dishwashing detergent will get grease out of almost anything, and shoe cobblers can work magic.
I also realized, unfortunately, that the rest of our economic system is set up for clothing and accessories to be disposable. Many online resellers make it difficult to make a return. Fixing clothing can be expensive, and repair services aren’t always easy to find. For years, I’ve stored broken costume jewelry in a plastic container, hoping to find a place that would repair it. I finally did, but it was 30 minutes away — I couldn’t imagine what the carbon footprint of that drive would be.
Now here’s where my “five items pledge” gets sticky. If you count the tights back in January (are they clothes or undergarments?), those knit pants put me over budget. If you don’t, then I was still under. But either way, here’s the thing: I had lost count in the best way. These habits were so easy to adopt that I had forgotten about new clothes — I didn’t purchase anything new for the rest of the year.
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In the months that followed, I took my daughter on an errand to drop off my summer shoes to get resoled. The strap on her favorite jelly shoes had just broken, and she had questions. I tried to explain why I could fix my shoes but not hers.
“When I grow up, I want to get my shoes fixed,” she told me.
I remembered all the times she’d played in the Savers toy aisle, or worn handed-down clothing from other families in our neighborhood. Maybe used clothes would become her default, and that would be the lasting impact of my choices.
Shira T. Center is the general manager for editorial revenue and strategy at the Boston Globe. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.