“Are you really going out wearing that?”

Even if you were completely fine with what you were wearing a few seconds ago, that one sentence might make you look at yourself again. You may suddenly wonder whether the dress looks too simple, whether other people will notice something you had not noticed before, or whether you somehow made the wrong choice. Nothing about the clothes has changed, and nothing about you has changed. Someone simply introduced doubt.

That small reaction is what made me think about how easily satisfaction can change. Sometimes a product does not become worse; our reference point changes.

I understood this most clearly through something very ordinary: an Eid dress.

For years, I bought many of my clothes from a Bangladeshi brand I genuinely liked. Eid shopping was something I enjoyed. I would visit different branches, choose a dress carefully, and then think about the jewellery, shoes, bag, or clutch that would go with it. I was happy with what I chose.

Then someone whose taste was very different from mine saw one of my Eid outfits and called it “basic”. They preferred Pakistani or some other designer clothes and made me feel as though what I had chosen was not special enough.

It was only a comment, but it stayed with me. The next Eid, I kept returning to the brand I had always liked, but suddenly nothing felt good enough. Eventually, I ordered an Agha Noor dress that I genuinely liked, and I ended up spending around twice or even three times what I would normally spend on a dress.

The dress was beautiful, and I enjoyed wearing it. But after wearing it a few times, I started wondering whether spending much more had actually made me much happier.

It had not.

That was when I realised that my taste had not necessarily changed. My reference point had.

This is where the story becomes bigger than one dress. We rarely judge what we own in isolation. We compare it with what our friends wear, what appears on social media, what influencers promote, what advertising repeatedly places in front of us, and what brands present as the next desirable thing. Consumer culture constantly introduces new standards, and social media makes those standards visible almost all the time.

That does not mean advertising or trends are automatically bad. Businesses are supposed to create desire. Fashion changes, technology develops, and companies need people to remain interested in what comes next. The problem begins when every new thing quietly turns the old thing into something we feel embarrassed to own.

Technology makes that especially obvious.

My first iPhone was an iPhone 16 Pro Max. It still has emotional value for me because it was my first iPhone, my mother chose the colour, and I remember the whole experience of getting it. More importantly, it still works perfectly well.

Yet every year there is another model, another design, another colour, and another reason to consider upgrading. At some point, I started asking myself where this actually stops. If I buy the 18, what happens when the 19 appears and then the 20 or 21?

There will always be a newer version.

I once came across an interesting observation about phone colours. Classic colours can make different generations look relatively similar, while a distinctive colour can make one particular model immediately recognisable. When the next recognisable colour arrives, the previous phone can suddenly feel older even though its performance has not changed.

That idea stayed with me because sometimes things become psychologically outdated before they become functionally useless.

Still, I do not think the answer is to reject expensive products or luxury.

My MacBook is one of the clearest examples. I bought it because I genuinely needed a reliable laptop for university, assignments, research, writing, and work. It was a significant purchase, but I have never considered it wasteful because I use it constantly and it continues to solve a real problem.

That experience taught me that price and value are not the same thing. An expensive purchase can be worthwhile if it gives you long-term usefulness, while a cheaper purchase can still be unnecessary if it mainly responds to temporary insecurity.

That made me think about another question: what are we actually buying?

Sometimes we buy utility. Sometimes pleasure, status, confidence, convenience, or some sense of belonging. And sometimes, without realising it, we are buying relief from the feeling that what we already have is not enough.

There was a period when I became very interested in online clothing shopping. I would discover another Facebook page, see another collection, like another dress, and soon another parcel would arrive. The excitement was real, but it did not always last.

When I think back, I cannot remember every dress that made me happy. But I remember certain experiences very clearly.

I remember salon appointments that actually helped me relax. I remember going out for food I genuinely wanted, sitting at cafés I enjoyed, buying books I had wanted to read, and taking trips that refreshed my mind. I still remember a day when I spent hours in a pool and how peaceful I felt afterwards.

Those things cost money too.

That is where opportunity cost becomes personal. If I am going to spend anyway, what else could that money give me? Another object, or a book that stays with me? Another impulse purchase, or a day trip that clears my head? Another dress, or a salon appointment I actually need? A café visit, good food, travel, a hobby, rest, or a memory?

I do not think experiences are always better than material things. The point is to understand what we are choosing and why.

Rational consumption, to me, does not mean refusing everything unnecessary. Life does not have to be financially optimised every second. Pleasure matters too. Luxury can be meaningful. A purchase does not need to be essential to be worthwhile.

But I think we should become more conscious of what we expect our spending to give us.

Before buying something, I want to ask whether I genuinely need it, whether I truly love it, whether I will use it and whether it is adding something to my life. More importantly, I want to ask whether I would still want it if nobody had made what I already own feel inadequate.

There will always be someone with a newer phone, a more expensive dress, a better car, a larger house or a more exciting-looking life. If satisfaction depends on catching up with everyone else, “enough” will keep moving.

Maybe the most useful question before the next purchase is not simply, “Can I afford this?”

Maybe it is: What exactly am I paying for? The usefulness, the joy, the experience, the status, or the insecurity?

There is nothing wrong with wanting things. I just do not want someone else’s definition of “better” to quietly become my definition of “not enough”.