Sunk Cost Fallacy

I follow the non-profit Strong Towns online and a recent post by president Charles Marohn resonated with me deeply. Marohn wrote about the sunk cost fallacy as an obstacle to communities strengthening their fiscal and social (in the sense of inclusivity, strong local connections, local resources) strengths. His example was a failed mall project: how hard would it be for a community to acknowledge the project was a disaster and stop trying to "rescue" it? The sunk cost fallacy prevents one from dealing with a problem objectively because one has such an emotional investment in the initial decision that rational thinking is stalled. Instead, one continues to invest in the initial decision, making it harder to walk away from emotionally. For example: We've already sunk $10 million into this project, and even though it is not succeeding and is a drag on our local economy, we can't just walk away from it. 

Marohn would say walk away. Don't sink more money or time or effort in it but instead acknowledge it was a mistake and move on in a new direction.

I also recently read a blog in which the author applied the sunk cost fallacy to a dessert he ordered even though he was full. Common sense told him to just have one bite; he ended up taking five (and being both physically and emotionally uncomfortable afterwards). Having already incurred the cost of the dessert, he felt he had to get his money's worth, even though he really didn't want to eat the dessert.

So here's my question to myself: what if I looked at my own life—my life choices, the way I spend my days and hours—through the lens of the sunk cost fallacy? Not in terms of dollars, but in terms of life energy, life passions? What if I let go of my accumulated emotional investment in this or that project and then decide whether something is worth continuing?

What would that look like?

I spent last weekend cleaning out my closet, our towel closet, and my study. My study had served as my personal dumping ground since the wedding at the end of June: medical papers, papers related to Aunt Ginger's needs, items to keep, items to donate, "stuff" I told myself I needed to sort through. A chair was stacked with the guest room towels (actually, the towels for both guest rooms) that I had washed, dried, and folded the week after the wedding and not yet put away. There were clothes hangers (60, 70, more?) of all styles and materials, all from downsizing Aunt Ginger's closet, strewn across the bed. There were boxes ALREADY FILLED taking up floor space because I had not yet walked them to my car for dropping off at Goodwill. Get the picture? (My closet and the towel closet were considerably better, but both contained items that could go.)

It took hours. (Hell, it took days.) But finally, at about 3:00 Sunday afternoon, I texted my friend Cindy "DONE." (Cindy and I encourage one another on life issues.)

Well, almost done.

The last item in question was a dress I have owned since Sam was very young. The dress is old enough that I once looked down in court to see gum—Sam's passion as a little boy—all over the full skirt from being in the laundry with a pair of his pants. I pulled it out of my closet and stalled. I love the way the dress looks. I love the gum story. But I have not worn that dress for four or five years. I put it on the Goodwill stack, then took it off. I looked at Warren, who had just walked into the bedroom, and told him I was uncertain.

My criteria for donating was if I hadn't worn a piece of clothing in two or more years, get rid of it. But I had that emotional investment in this one. And the dress looks nice. So I stuck it back in my closet, telling myself that if I didn't wear it for another year, out it would go.

I made my decision much faster. Yesterday, I was at a meeting held in a major downtown Columbus law firm. I wanted to look appropriate and I had just talked about the dress, so I wore it. I looked...fine. But I also spent the day aware that the dress didn't fit me well anymore (I've lost a lot of weight), the attached vest rides up when I sit or stand, and, no matter what else it has going for it, the dress just isn't what I wear these days.

I certainly got my money's worth from that dress over the decades; the sunk cost fallacy for me was thinking I had to hang onto it because if I ever needed a fancier outfit, I would save money by having it. Right? Right? (And there is that gum story.) But the rational thinking was I didn't enjoy wearing the dress, especially since it doesn't fit well, and the vest riding up drove me crazy. I have other perfectly nice clothes. And Sam's clothes and mine have not been in a washer at the same time for at least a decade, with or without gum in someone's pocket.

So last night I brushed it off, folded it up, and walked it out to my car, which held numerous bags and boxes. This morning I stopped at Goodwill and unloaded everything.

The sunk cost fallacy has me thinking beyond whether to donate clothes I no longer wear. What if I tossed out all the unfounded expectations I carry around? Scrapped my buy-ins to what I "have to" or "should" do--not because I want to or believe in something, but because I feel obligated? Took a wild and crazy chance on my life? What if I let go of the weight of emotional investments to ideas and projects I have long outgrown or lost interest in or moved beyond?

It's a radical notion. And an intriguing one.