The Loop of “I’m Investing in Myself, Not Wasting Money”

I don’t drink much. I don’t gamble. I’ve ghosted the clubs since 2011. I’m that guy who returns Amazon packages before they even get delivered.

But then one day, I bought a cycling jersey. One. Jersey.

Now, I live in a vortex of cardboard boxes and packing slips.

One day, it’s “I’m investing in my health.”
The next day, it’s “That GPS computer has VO2 max tracking, and if I die mid-ride, at least I’ll know why.”

Then it’s “Safety first” as I shell out 200 bucks for a helmet that looks like Elon Musk’s unpaid intern designed it.

It’s a loop. And it’s tight. Tighter than those bib shorts I convinced myself were aerodynamic.

It’s not a spending problem.
It’s not even a hobby.
It’s a justified delusion with a payment plan.

Here’s how that delusion keeps kicking:

The Health Halo

I tell myself, “This is for my health.” Which it is. But also, I just really wanted that carbon-railed saddle that shaves off 97 grams and adds 19 new insecurities.

Functional Guilt-Free Spending

When you buy something for a sport, it’s not shopping. It’s self-development. Better gear = better rides = better me. Right?

Incremental Upgrades = Incremental Self-Worth

My pedals were MTB. I ride road. Disaster, clearly. So I buy Look Keo’s and tell myself my quads will now fire with 6.8% more efficiency. That’s practically science.

If It Arrives in a Box, It Must Be Important

Got a helmet, shoes, jersey, gloves, and a damn torque wrench in two hours. I didn’t feel joy. I felt like I was on a game show where the prize is buyer’s remorse with a receipt.

The Comparison Curse

You see someone with an S-Works and think “I deserve that too.” Even if you mostly ride to the bakery and back.

Consumerism Masquerading as Self-Love

The worst part? It works. I ride harder in new gear. I stand taller in that $100 wind vest. I feel worthy… until next Tuesday when the new Garmin drops.

Now let me tell you something about me you probably didn’t ask for. I’m a lot like the narrator in Bukowski’s Post Office—just less drunk and more spandex.

That guy spent over a decade buried in soul-numbing monotony, making ends barely kiss.

Then one day, he flips off the job and the world and says “no more.” He quits. He writes. He loses. He wins. In the grimiest, most human way possible.
The story ain’t glamorous, but damn is it honest.

Same here. I’m not riding to win races. I’m not writing this to justify anything. I just want the truth, even if it comes with cleats and anti-chafe cream.

So here’s a table for you—because every spiral of rationalization deserves a spreadsheet.

Point	Summary
1. Health Halo	Excuses wrapped in cardio.
2. Functional Spending	“It’s not buying stuff, it’s progress!”
3. Upgrade Logic	Old gear is dangerous. New gear is destiny.
4. Package Overload	A shrine to delayed gratification.
5. Peer Pressure	You see someone else’s bike. Your wallet shivers.
6. Worse Addictions	The ultimate fallback defense.
7. Self-Love via Consumerism	If it makes you better, is it really wrong?

Conclusion:

I stood in my hallway today, six boxes deep, holding a reflective windbreaker in one hand and my dignity in the other.
The windbreaker won.

I told myself it’s an investment. In my health. In my happiness. In my velocity.
It’s not about wasting money—it’s about optimizing life.

And maybe that’s true.

But maybe the guy with the third-hand steel bike and duct-taped toe cages is just as invested—only in something I forgot to buy: contentment.

Anyway, I’m returning the torque wrench. Probably.