I had to buy a dress for my uncle’s wedding at the end of the month. (And by “had to” I mean “wanted to,” of course, but our inability to distinguish wants from needs is a whole other post.) I made the choice of where to shop based on two considerations:

1. Nice but not outrageously expensive clothing;
2. Locally made.

That first consideration is always the case, but the second isn’t usually.

At the risk of having my girl card revoked, I hate shopping. I especially hate shopping for clothes and shoes. I would like magic elves to make a fabulous wardrobe appear in my closet and replenish it regularly. I guess a personal shopper would do.

So when I want new clothes I wait until I’m in a patient mood (and wait, and wait) and dash in to one of the stores I know carries clothing I generally like at a decent price and get out of there as fast as I can with whatever fits. Tim Gunn would not want to be my friend. That’s ok with me.

But my new office is in this great neighbourhood with local boutiques I pass by every day, including one I realized has not-too-expensive clothes I love that are casual enough for everyday but nice enough for work (or an afternoon later-in-life wedding), created by their resident designer. I need some new work clothes, and I liked the idea of shopping locally and paying a little more than I normally would for a few pieces that would make me feel happier about my appearance than some of my current “it seemed like a good idea at the time” clothing. And, bonus, no sweatshop labour.

I think.

I try to live an ethical life, but you need a PhD in consumerism to figure out the complexities of most buying choices. Take this Made in Canada skirt I’m wearing today, from that locally owned store (yes, I went in for a dress for the wedding and came out with two dresses and two skirts. Come on, I’m still a woman). Does that mean the fabrics were made in Canada, or just the garment? What about the dyes? Or the threads, zipper and buttons?

I’m pretty sure it means it was just assembled in Canada, but I don’t know. I don’t even know how I could know. And if I tried to find out before I bought, I would never buy anything ever, because my life isn’t organized like that and my decision-making abilities are paralyzed when I have more than two options on a menu.

So I go through life making an approximation of an ethical choice — at least it was somewhat made in Canada! — and, above all, I choose to care about a finite number of causes in the world and focus real energy on them.

I chose a career primarily in non-profit and health care. I’ve given to Doctors Without Borders monthly for going on 15 years now. I’ve provided microloans through Kiva and support other charities. I’m becoming a Big Sister. I organized an auction to benefit Kids Help Phone. I don’t say that to say I’m a great person — any posts I could write about how not-great I am would overcompensate for my altruistic side — but if I blog or Tweet or Facebook or even expend more than a few words in real life about a cause, I want it to be a cause I believe in enough to take action. Otherwise it’s just more noise.

Saying we’re “promoting awareness” when we ourselves can’t be bothered to act on that awareness is the definition of slacktivism. We don’t deserve a pat on the back for doing nothing meaningful. As sarcasm kings Someecards.com would put it: “When you care enough to hit send.”

Buying locally and advocating cruelty-free labour? I can’t promote those causes without being a hypocrite. My closet has some Made in Bangladesh labels. I own a smartphone and an iPad, a flat screen TV and a computer. I have no idea where most of my furniture came from. I eat meat and can’t stop eating high-carbon-footprint raspberries and cherries out of season. I own a fuel-efficient car, but it’s still a car. I have no idea what materials were used to build my condo, or what was done to the land it was built on. And on and on.

I’ve unfollowed people on Twitter who hector their followers to pursue a vegan lifestyle, not because I don’t think there’s value to veganism but because it’s not the right choice for everyone, and it’s one choice of the plethora we’re confronted with all the time. Tell me about your experiences and decision making, sure, but don’t imply I’m unethical for  not making the same choice.

Most of us muddle through life trying to do as little harm as possible, knowing that the mere act of existence, especially existence in an urban, industrialized, consumerist environment, makes us all guilty of something. All that’s left is for us to choose what our individual somethings won’t be.

I’ll continue to shop at this local boutique when I can afford it, but to be honest? The choice comes down to how much I love this skirt I’m wearing more than where it was made.

Sometimes I think if I planned my life better, I’d never do anything. I’d be paralysed with indecision and see too clearly the reasons not to do something. Whereas now I can look back and think, yeah, that’s exactly what I meant to do. In retrospect.

For example, if I had meant to hold an online charity auction, and had researched the logistics and estimated the time and the likelihood of raising more than I could comfortably just donate myself, I probably would have said to hell with it and given Kids Help Phone $50.

But even after spending an entire weekend emailing and packing and shipping after the Friday close of the auction I accidentally held, I’m so glad I didn’t actually plan it and give myself the opportunity to abandon it.

I started the TV, eh? website in much the same accidental way. I’d written something about how Canada needed a site like The Futon Critic that had information on Canadian shows. Someone said “if you see a need, why don’t you start it?” After my initial “why would I? And I don’t have time” I started it quietly, on a whim one night, figuring if no one cared I’d abandon it. That was 6 years ago.

With the auction, I had the vague thought that I’d get some prizes from my contacts and have a draw to encourage people to donate to a good cause during the Christmas season. I didn’t know what prizes or what cause or exactly how I would do the draw. Whatever. Details.

I started by asking some of my TV industry friends and acquaintances and PR contacts for items to donate, figuring if they couldn’t help the idea would die anyway. But they said yes. All of them. And they gave me really good stuff. And I realized I’d raise way more money through an auction than a draw.

So I asked for help deciding on a charity, and I asked other people for more stuff, and suddenly I had this full-blown auction with over 70 items up for bid on my hands before I had time to think, well, shit, how am I going to do this when I’ve never auctioned anything off before in my life? I don’t think I’ve even bought anything in an auction. But I got fascinated by the mechanics of it, and the setting up of my WordPress site to host it, and the psychology of bidding.

Not nearly as suddenly we raised over $6,500 for Kids Help Phone, and there’s still one package left that got caught at customs and a couple other smaller items that winning bidders are re-donating to the cause. When I filled out their Third Party Event form I told Kids Help Phone I wanted to raise $2,000 – I didn’t want to raise expectations too much, since I had no idea how to estimate how much money we’d raise. Secretly, though, I hoped for $5,000. So I’m thrilled at the almost-final total.

After sending out thank yous to donors, I’m getting some “we’ll be happy to donate next year” responses. Next year? Oh. Right. Maybe I will make it an annual event. And next time I’ll actually plan it using lessons learned from this year, especially the lesson that it was fun and worthwhile, and most of all that it’s inspiring to be part of this online community that responded to an initial vague idea with “sure, what can we do to help?”

A few years ago I printed off an application form to be a Big Sister – perhaps surprising news to friends who know I’ve never wanted children of my own, but perhaps not to those who have seen me with their children.

I was intimidated by the form, specifically the scenarios where I was supposed to predict how I’d react in certain challenging situations, but mostly I put the idea aside when the Olympic job ate my life.

Before even getting to the form printing stage, I was required to read the mentor program requirements and the Big Intro for Big Sisters. And suddenly, after not thinking about it for decades, I wished I could go back and explain some facts to shy, quiet seven-year-old me.

I would have been around seven when someone initiated my application to be a Little Sister – I know that because I remember where we were living, but also because, as I found out a few years ago, seven is the minimum intake age. That was probably explained to me, but I hadn’t absorbed it.

My big brother had already been matched with a Big Brother so not only did I think I was an afterthought, I had in my little mind that Big Brothers were for boys who didn’t have fathers and Big Sisters were for girls who didn’t have mothers. But I had a mother. I thought there was something illicit about my application, though that was probably explained to me, too. But you don’t explain to a seven year old that she’s been identified as high-risk and in need of a mentor because her father’s dead and mother has schizophrenia. You explain that she might like someone to do fun things with.

I was never matched. That was probably explained to me too as the simple equation it is: more Little Sisters on the list than Big Sisters applying. But even a seven year old can do the math that some are chosen and some aren’t, and she wasn’t.

I don’t mean for this to be a poor little seven-year-old-me story. In fact it’s the opposite. Because she grew up to be me, and I’ve got a great life and a great career and great friends and I want to use my journey from her to me to help mentor another her. I’ve dug out the application again and this time I’ve even filled it out.