I’m finally giving up buying toys for myself

At this year’s New York Comic Con, held last month at Manhattan’s 3.3-million-square-foot Jacob K Javits Center, I stood before a dinosaur-sized inflatable Goku — the protagonist from the Dragon Ball Z franchise — with over 200,000 fanboys and fangirls swirling around me. Everyone was hunting for exclusive bobbleheads.

New York Comic Con is the East Coast’s biggest ode to pop culture. It’s a four-day convention that is less about comic books themselves and more about accumulating pins and posters and hoodies and mystery boxes exploding with stuff you will never use. There are vendors selling replicas of Thor’s hammer. Life-sized glow-in-the-dark Slimers. Lightsabers that can power your house. It’s geek fashion week, and everyone competes for who has the best cosplay, spending months and thousands to dress as their favorite characters. Those who don’t cosplay are decked out in geek swag, acting as billboards for their chosen properties.

I came with $100 cash in my pocket — much less than most folks there — and I was ready to blow it on Marvel shirts, hats and action figures. But I was just so bored with it all.

It was a terrifying realization for someone whose life revolved around geek culture and toys, especially as we climbed towards the apex of the shopping year: Black Friday, Cyber Monday and Small Business Saturday, plus regular Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday — all spectacular times to find deals on action figures during the holiday season.

Every year, November and December would fly by as I scrolled the Target and Walmart and Amazon and eBay sites hunting for the newest Spider-Man figures, yearning for that same jolt of excitement I had when I first began collecting as a pre-teen.

I’m not alone. For the first time, according to a 2024 Circana study, in the first quarter of this year, American adults spent more on toys for themselves than for preschoolers, shelling out over $1.5 billion in sales in the first three months. In the past year, a whopping 43% of adults purchased themselves a toy. Similar trends are happening in the UK. As the toy industry struggles, sales to adults are skyrocketing, and toy companies are marketing nostalgia, releasing figures that remind folks of their youth.

Shopping for toys gave my droll winter workdays meaning. It made parenting less wearying when I could flick through my kids’ toy catalogs, searching for the toys I wanted. When your days are monotonous — working and changing diapers and driving kids to school — scoring a rare collectible makes you feel accomplished.

And the season of giving — to myself — begins in October, with Comic Con. Other than a couple of years during the pandemic, I’ve attended every New York Comic Con for more than a decade.

Even preparing for the con was exciting for the shopper in me. I needed to plan my outfits, the bag I’d carry all my goodies in without breaking my back, the shoes that would help me not destroy my ankles while I stood in lines for panels. For months, I would refresh comic news websites hourly for the latest drops for the con and holiday season that I wouldn’t be able to afford.

Over the years, I’ve filled many roles at the con, many of which let me in before the normies, so I could be first in line for swag. I’ve attended on a professional pass as a school social worker learning how to incorporate comic curriculum into my programming. I’ve written for random comic websites that pay me nothing but offer free press passes. I’ve elbowed my way through twisting lines to secure exclusives that I sell within minutes on eBay so I could afford more exclusives for myself.

I had a comics-themed bar mitzvah, and Comic Con was that times a million. I grew into adulthood, getting married and starting my own family, secure with my action figures and comics by my side. Life changed, but Spider-Man didn’t. Family and friends aged and died, but Aunt May never did.

Now that I own a house, I have more physical space than ever, but less space to collect anything. This is because I have a ton of little people living with me: a 6-year-old, a 4-year-old, and a 1-and-a-half-year-old. And they all have their own toys, spilling out of every crevice. Now, my collection of action figures has been pushed into the scorching attic. All my unopened Pop! bobbleheads have been discovered by my kids, their packaging torn to pieces and heads ripped off. To marvel at my 30th anniversary X-Men Hologram Set — which is still miraculously sealed! — I need to schlep upstairs and battle through the walls of spider webs.

But I can delve into memories without moving an inch. One of the first years I attended Comic Con, I volunteered to write for a now-defunct geek website to secure that coveted press pass. I scored an interview with Darryl McDaniels, the iconic black-hatted co-founder of pioneering hip-hop group Run-D.M.C., who was promoting his new comic. He was a comic book geek himself who overcame addiction and had the gentlest voice. Before we chatted, he had to use the restroom, so he spirited me backstage along with his crew.

Outside the bathroom, he stopped to talk with his friend Stan Lee, the co-creator of the Marvel Universe, who was then in his 90s. I attempted to play it cool. I didn’t want to burst with excitement, so I held my breath and didn’t move, and for that moment, I was just part of DMC’s entourage, chatting with the man who created my childhood. It’s a memory no one can take from me, one that will never be stuffed into the attic. I’m still buds with one of the members of DMC’s crew.

This year, I went into the city for three days to attend the con. It was my first time not cuddling my son to bed since the pandemic started. Instead of forcing myself to trek to Javits every day, I only attended for two days, spending less than six hours total at the con. When I was there, I hung out with my cousin — the dude who introduced me to comics with a Fantastic Four annual all those decades ago. When I shopped, I shopped for my kids, searching for the perfect pins based on their favorite properties: Spider Gwen for my daughter and Pikachu for my son. The 1-year-old didn’t need anything. Neither did I.

The truth was, I still had a great weekend. During my years writing about comics — often for free — I built relationships with people I adored. I spent an hour debating the Jewish influence on the Skrull’s invasion of the Marvel Universe with the author of one of my favorite books on Jewish comic history, and I was invited to eat Shabbat dinner with the former comics editor at Heeb Magazine, one of the greatest magazines ever. Over delicious homemade challah, we discussed classic graphic novels, many of which he edited.

The more I find myself distanced from the clutter of action figures and collectibles, the more I find myself loving comics. I re-read comics and am blasted back to moments of my life that I cherish. Issues of X-Men from the ’90s zip me into the backseat of my parent’s car, safe with them at the wheel. I read issues of Avengers and feel the same way I did on my wedding day when I read them to distract me from my anxiety. Today, I still purchase physical comics to support my local comic shop, but I read most issues digitally, with my babies cradled close after bedtimes.

I’ll even try and enjoy myself this Chanukah season. Sure, I’ll still flip through my kids’ catalogs, but I feel a sense of relief knowing I won’t spend entire days scouring the web for a few bucks off a figure I will never open. Next year, I’ll still trek to Comic Con with a hefty bag and good shoes, but it won’t be the same. What matters these days isn’t the stuff I accumulate. My kids just destroy it anyhow. But I’ve got great relationships and memories that aren’t going anywhere, and I’m creating new ones every day.