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I’m Taking the Minimalist Plunge, and So Far I Suck
My boyfriend and I are getting rid of stuff. Like, lots of stuff. The crap that hangs on hangers and sits in drawers and lurks underneath the table; the old CDs we always swore we’d listen to but never do; the shelves of books gathering dust in a forgotten closet. Kitchen junk drawer? We have two. Bathroom cabinets? Full of beauty products, expired medications, jewelry I never wear, half-used hair product, and sticky residue from things that sprung leaks and never got cleaned up.
The thing is, our house isn’t all that abnormal. It’s a regular house, not a hoarder’s house. We don’t have newspapers piled to the ceiling. We don’t have to carve pathways through our junk to navigate to the front door. Well, Boyfriend has to do that through his clothing to get to his side of the bed, but that’s because he hasn’t learned how to put away his clean laundry. We’re normal, is the point.
But we got sick of plowing through the closet to find something to wear amongst all the things we didn’t want to wear. I hated my office, which doubles as the guest bedroom, because I couldn’t settle in to write without first cleaning out piles of books and paper and journals I’d left lying around. They didn’t have anywhere to live because there’s a bed, a dresser, two desks, a chair, an ottoman, and another closet that is — you guessed it — full of useless…
