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  • Kristan Higgins

Non-buyer’s remorse

Updated: May 6, 2022 defines buyer’s remorse as a feeling of regret experienced after making a purchase, typically one regarded as unnecessary or extravagant.

I do not suffer from this. I suffer from non-buyer’s remorse.


Take, for example, that brownstone in a then run-down section of this borough no one ever went to…Brooklyn, I think it was called. The entire house was intact and original, and you’d have to gut it in order to break it into apartments, so the asking price was a hundred grand. This was back in the early 90s, when a certain couple had nothing but love and debt and a skinny cat. A hundred grand might as well have been a million zillion dollars. “We’ll regret this,” said I to my husband, and I made good on that promise. To this day, I remind McIrish that we could’ve owned an entire brownstone in bleeping Brooklyn. Not that we could’ve done anything about that, but when has that ever stopped a wife from bringing up the past?

Seventeen houses on Cape Cod. They were all fixers uppers that would require several years of indentured servitude by McIrish, but guess how much those babies are worth now? A lot.

That sweet little boat in someone’s yard that may have been free. But we don’t live on the water! But we have no boaterly skills! Even so, we could’ve had a cute little boat. For free. I could’ve driven it around some lake or other body of water and not caught fish, as is my hobby. But no. We left it there.


The six black kittens at the cat palace shelter in Pennsylvania. Don’t lecture me about being a pet hoarder! They were adorable! Huck remains determined to reject me. I could’ve had six of my own cats who loved me. I could have.

Any number of perfect articles of clothing that I talked myself out of. “Do I really need it, though?” I like to ask myself. “No. Good for you, Higgins!” Then, a month later, I need it. I realize that my black sweater has been eaten by moths, and my white shirt is stained, and I have nothing to wear to the event that starts in 20 minutes. “Damn it, Higgins!” I say to myself. “Don’t be such a tightwad next time!”

The mysterious paste I got that one time at TJ Maxx. Oh, don’t judge. It’s my favorite grocery store, and never shall I forget the time I did indeed take a chance on the green Thai sauce that took my tuna noodle dinner from disgusting to amazing. I only bought the one jar. There were no jars left the next time I went, nor in any other time since then. I’ll never forget you, green Thai sauce. Someday, I hope we’ll meet again.


The bicycle with the couch-like seat and low crossbar in Tiffany blue that was being practically given away by a bike shop at the end of the season. “But I have a bike!” I told myself, fondling the blue bike’s handlebars. Yeah. I do. I rode it today, and boy, does my butt feel it. And every time I swing my leg over my bike’s crossbar and nearly fall, I curse myself for not getting that blue bike, which, in addition to being much more attractive than my muddy gray bike, was kinder for people with balance issues.

Ah, well. The next time I come across a brownstone full of black kittens with a blue bike parked in front of it, you can bet I’m jumping all over that.


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