It’s 11:47 PM. You’re in bed, bathed in the blue glow of your phone. Your rational brain knows you don’t need a 70-200mm f/2.8. You already own three lenses that cover this focal range. You have rent due in nine days.
But your photographer brain is already constructing a case. A bulletproof, airtight, completely reasonable case for why this isn’t a purchase. It’s an investment. It’s savings. It’s basically irresponsible not to buy it.
What follows is a guided tour through the dark art of Photographer Math: the mental gymnastics we all perform to transform reckless spending into fiscal responsibility. If you’ve never done this, congratulations. You’re either lying or you don’t actually like photography.
For the rest of us: let’s get into it.
Lie #1: ‘I’m Actually Losing Money if I Don’t Buy It’
There’s a $100 instant rebate. It expires in six hours.
Your brain, which failed algebra twice, suddenly becomes an economics savant. “This isn’t spending $2,200,” you whisper to yourself. “This is losing $100 if I don’t act now. That’s just bad financial planning.”
Never mind that you’ve never once woken up and thought: “I really regret not buying that lens in 2019.” That’s not how this works. That’s never been how this works. But tonight, at 11:47 PM, the rebate is real and the regret is theoretical.
You’ve already opened the calculator app to see how many months you can split this across on your credit card. The math isn’t mathing, but you’re committed now.
Lie #2: ‘It’s Only 60 Cents a Day’
This is the big one. The classic. The Old Faithful of photographer rationalization.
“This lens will last 10 years,” you tell yourself. “Maybe 15. They built this thing like a tank. So really, $2,200 divided by 3,650 days is… hold on… $0.60 a day. That’s nothing. That’s less than a coffee. That’s less than a banana at the grocery store.”
Here’s what you’re conveniently ignoring: you will sell this lens in 18 months when the Mark III version is announced. You always do. You’ve never owned a piece of gear for ten years in your life. Your phone is two years old and you already hate it.
Also, you’ve never applied “cost per day” math to anything else you own. Your couch cost $1,200 and you’ve never once thought, “Well, that’s only 33 cents a day over ten years.” Your refrigerator doesn’t get this treatment. Only the things you want but can’t afford get broken down into daily micro-payments.
Funny how that works.
Lie #3: ‘Lenses Hold Their Value’
“It’s not like buying a car,” you say, with the confidence of someone who has never tried to sell a lens. “Glass doesn’t depreciate. It’s basically a savings account made of optical elements. If anything, I’m being financially responsible here.”
Let’s talk about what you’re not mentioning:
The 35% depreciation the second you slice open the box. The eBay fees. The PayPal fees. The shipping you’ll have to eat because buyers expect free shipping now. The lowball offers. The guy who thinks your $2,200 lens is worth $900 because “it’s been used.” The buyer who claims it arrived damaged and you spend three weeks arguing with eBay support.
But sure. It holds its value.
At this point, you Google “vintage Leica lenses” and find one selling for $15,000. See? Glass appreciates. You conveniently ignore that you’re buying a Sigma, that Leica has 80 years of cult status behind it, and that your lens will be worth $400 in 2035 when everyone is shooting on computational sensor arrays embedded in their corneas.
Lie #4: ‘Compared to That Lens, This Is Responsible’
This one requires a bit of theater.
First, you pull up the 600mm f/4. You stare at the price tag: $12,999. You wince. You show your phone to no one in particular, as if someone else is watching your internal negotiation.
Then you tab back to your 70-200mm. $2,200.
Suddenly, you’re not a gear addict. You’re not reckless. You’re practically frugal. Your accountant would be proud of the restraint you’re showing here. Some people buy $13,000 lenses. You? You’re buying the sensible lens. The responsible lens. The lens a reasonable adult would purchase.
The problem is, you’ve now also bookmarked the 600mm. Just to keep an eye on it. Just in case.
You now have two lenses you’re emotionally attached to instead of one. Excellent work.
Lie #5: ‘It Pays for Itself’
“Look,” you tell the ceiling at midnight, “this isn’t an expense. It’s a business investment. One extra wedding and this lens is free. One corporate headshot session. One real estate walkthrough. It pays for itself.”
Let’s review the facts:
You have zero bookings on the calendar. Your last paid shoot was your cousin’s engagement photos four months ago, for which you were compensated with a pan of lasagna (admittedly, excellent lasagna). Your “photography business” has a logo and negative $4,000 in net revenue since you started “taking it seriously.”
But this lens? This is the one that turns it all around. This is the gear that unlocks the clients. They’ve been out there, waiting, holding their money, saying “I would hire this photographer, but their 70-200 f/4 just doesn’t inspire confidence. Now, if they had the f/2.8…”
You know this isn’t true. You click “Add to Cart” anyway.
Lie #6: ‘I Need This for Low Light’
This one feels more legitimate, which makes it more dangerous.
“My current lens is too slow,” you reason. “I’m always pushing ISO. I’m getting noise in every shot. I need that extra stop of light. Maybe two. It’s not a luxury. It’s a necessity.”
You start imagining scenarios. School plays. Dimly lit restaurants. Your friend’s wedding where you’re definitely not the hired photographer but you’ll bring your camera “just in case” and end up working the whole night anyway.
“I need f/1.2,” you conclude. “For the weddings. For the art. For the low-light situations I definitely encounter all the time.”
Here’s the thing: you will still shoot at f/4. You always do. You’re terrified of missing focus at wide apertures. You’ll buy the f/1.2 lens, set it to f/2.8, and wonder why your images look the same as before.
But tonight, in the dark, f/1.2 feels like the answer to every problem you’ve ever had.
Lie #7: ‘I’ll Sell Some Old Gear to Cover It’
This is the compromise. The reasonable middle ground. The thing you tell yourself so you can sleep.
“I have a drawer full of stuff I never use,” you think. “That old 50mm f/1.8. The kit lens from my first camera. The gimbal I bought in 2019 and used exactly twice. The SD cards I’m saving for backup but will never actually use because they’re too slow now.”
You add it up. There’s easily $600 worth of gear in that drawer. Maybe $800 if you’re optimistic. You could sell it on Facebook Marketplace. eBay. r/photomarket. That covers a third of the lens, easy.
Here’s what will actually happen: you will never list any of it. The drawer will remain untouched. The kit lens will sit there, judging you silently, for another three years until you move apartments and throw it in a box labeled “CAMERA STUFF – FRAGILE” that you will also never open.
Eventually, you will die, and your family will sell the entire drawer at an estate sale for $40 to a guy who “flips cameras.”
But tonight, the theoretical value of that drawer is enough to push you over the edge.
The Click
You buy it. You always do.
You feel a brief pulse of guilt, followed by a longer wave of excitement, followed by a strange emptiness that you’ll later identify as “the realization that the wanting was better than the having.”
The package arrives in three days. You open it. You hold the lens. You mount it to your camera. You take a photo of your cat. The cat looks the same as it did with your other lens, but sharper. Probably. Maybe. You’d have to pixel-peep to be sure, and you’re definitely going to do that.
For one beautiful afternoon, you are satisfied.
Then you open your browser again. Because now you need a lens hood. And maybe a UV filter (for protection, obviously). And actually, your camera strap is looking a little worn, and there’s this new one that’s really more of a “system.” And is your current camera really taking full advantage of that lens’ resolving power?
The Takeaway
There is no cure for Gear Acquisition Syndrome. There is no twelve-step program. There is only the endless cycle of want, justify, purchase, and want again.
The lies we tell ourselves aren’t really lies. They’re survival mechanisms. They’re the stories we need to believe so we can function in a world where beautiful, overpriced glass exists and our credit limits are higher than our willpower.
If you recognized yourself in any of these lies: welcome. You’re among friends. We’re all here, at midnight, bathed in blue light, adding things to our carts.
The only real advice I can offer is this: if you’re going to lie to yourself, at least be creative about it.
That rebate expires in four hours. You know what to do.
What’s the most ridiculous lie you’ve told yourself to justify a gear purchase?Â