It started the way most of my good (and slightly unhinged) ideas do—somewhere between a late-night protein bar and a “just for fun” scroll through my Amazon order history. I wasn’t expecting anything dramatic. A couple supplements, maybe a replacement shaker bottle, some high-fiber wraps. The usual suspects.

But somewhere around the third impulse gadget and yet another set of meal prep containers—this time in “motivational” pastel—I started to feel a little... judged. By my own cart.

I’m Stacy. I live in New York, I work in strategy consulting, and I like my days like I like my squats: heavy and structured. I lift five days a week, budget almost as hard as I train, and I’m usually the most pragmatic person in the room.

But I also have a soft spot for little luxuries. A quirky “coffee and cardio” mug, a funny banana plush with biceps, random gadgets that might improve my life (but usually just end up in a drawer). I’m not a big spender—I’m a just-often-enough spender. And when I added it all up, March’s Amazon total hit $487.63.

Not catastrophic. Just... humbling.

So where did all that money go?

Honestly? It trickled away. Slowly, quietly, in the form of things that felt justifiable at the time.

Fitness & Nutrition – $138.24

Optimum Nutrition creatine, Alani Nu pre-workout (the “Hawaiian Shaved Ice” one that turned my face hot pink), and yet another 3-pack of Blender Bottles I thought I needed because the color palette was “fresh.” I also grabbed a pastel meal prep container set from Bentgo that promised to organize my fridge. It didn’t.

Gadgets & Tech – $91.10

A Renpho Bluetooth scale that told me I had 28% body fat, resistance bands I already owned but “couldn’t find,” and a smart water bottle from HidrateSpark that buzzed at me like an insecure situationship every hour on the hour.

Trinkets & Gifts – $62.85

A mug that says “Deadlifts and Chill,” a plush broccoli with a tiny smile, and a birthday gift for my sister: a Burt’s Bees self-care kit that felt thoughtful but also Primeable.

Pantry & “Health Food” – $54.31

Kodiak Cakes protein pancake mix (why do I always think I’m going to become a pancake person?), Justin’s almond butter packets, and a bag of high-fiber wraps that now live in the back of my fridge under some hummus from February.

Household & Life Admin – $77.90

Swiffer wet pads, some toothpaste, a motion-sensor soap dispenser I still haven’t set up, and a pack of dish towels that say “This Kitchen Is For Dancing,” which felt cute in the moment and now feel aggressively cheerful at 6 a.m.

Impulse/Misc – $63.23

Socks with dumbbells on them. A stick-on mirror for “better gym selfies.” And something called a “light therapy clip” that sounded scientific and looked like a ring light mated with a binder clip. So far, I don’t think it works.

It wasn’t about the money. It was about the drift.

Here’s the thing—I budget. Religiously. I know what’s coming in, what’s going out, and what needs to go straight into savings. But Amazon doesn’t hit the same as a swipe at Whole Foods or a Venmo for dinner. It’s sneakier. Frictionless. Practically invisible. It’s not shopping; it’s tapping.

And when you’re living in a city like New York—working long hours, grabbing protein on the go, squeezing lifts into an already busy schedule—your brain doesn’t always flag “$29.99 for a fancy soap dish” as a red-alert moment.

But five or six of those moments later? That’s a third of a rent check on things I could barely remember buying.

So, I made some changes. Quiet ones.

I didn’t go full no-spend or banish Amazon from my life, I’m not a masochist. But I did build a system that makes the spending a little less automatic:

• Amazon gets its own budget category now—$75 a month.

• I added a rule: wishlist first, revisit in 72 hours. If I still want it, I buy it. If I don’t, it disappears into the void.

• I preload a $75 gift card every month and treat it like a cap. Not a suggestion.

• I also deleted the app off my phone. Haven’t missed it once.

I still bought the mug. I just thought about it first.

That’s kind of the whole point. I’m not here to preach minimalism—I still love my little purchases, my silly gym socks, my collagen coffee. But now, I buy with intention. Or at least, with a pause.

The thing I learned breaking down my Amazon history wasn’t that I’m reckless. It’s that I was making a hundred tiny choices I wasn’t aware of. And when you add them up, they become a story. One I wasn’t exactly proud of.

Now? The story’s different. It’s not “oops, how did I spend $487.63?” It’s “yeah, I bought that—because it fits my plan.”

And trust me, that story hits better.

Want to keep following Stacy’s budgeting life in NYC? Or her current ranking of “purchases that look dumb but actually improved my routine”? You know she’s got thoughts.