Minimalism Sucks

It turns out I do need all that crap

I’m living without most of my stuff, at the moment. All my bookcases, books, chests-of-drawers, pictures, photos, and knick-knacks are missing. Most of my clothes and cooking equipment are missing too.

And it sucks, big time.

The day after I had my house photographed, ready to sell, my partner heard about a restructure at work which eventually resulted in redundancy.

We had spent the last six weekends, plus a lot of leave days, de-cluttering, packing, cleaning, and painting. By the time we knew about my partner’s possible redundancy, most of my belongings were in storage on the other side of the city.

We cancelled the sale of the house. Then we went into lock-down. With no books.

Luckily we still had the TV. Prospective NZ house buyers don’t want to see any evidence of your life, kids, or pets when they view a home but don’t mind your being human enough to have a television.

It’s been nine months since the big de-clutter, and I’m beginning to forget what I own.

I miss my stuff, and I want it back.

Here is why:

It’s not cozy any more

Pictures on the wall, photos, and ornaments make a home feel cozy and lived-in.

I can look at my possessions and think about the associated memories.

Personal belongings make a house look like a home.

I miss my candles.

The walls look too bare. The only ornaments we have left are ones that look good in the photos, in places where they wouldn’t normally go.

I feel like I’m in a motel. And the damned orchid I bought died. We will need a new one when we eventually sell.

Maybe the real estate agents are in league with the orchid growers.

My personality is erased

I like costume jewelry. My bedroom wall was covered in costume jewelry, hanging from hooks on the wall. Bird hooks, flower hooks, all different.

Now, my walls look bland. Most of my jewelry is packed. Worst of all, I can’t wear any of it.

My kitchen was covered in sci-fi posters. My Dr. Who corner with the Tardis biscuit tin, teapot, and mug. My weeping angel Christmas decoration.

The coasters made from original Star Trek comics. All my daughter’s artwork from when she was small, including a Picasso knock-off, Mrs. Boswell, the teacher who had had a triangular head, one eye, and blue skin.

My personality isn’t evident anymore, and frankly, my house looks boring.

I miss my books

A house without books is a horrible thing to behold. It’s just not right, and I don’t like it. I’m stamping my little foot. I still use the library and have Kindle, but it’s just not the same as having access to several bookcases full of old favorites, within arms reach, whenever I want.

I like the tactile experience of books, how they feel, the smell.

I’ve still got all my old Christmas annuals from when I was a kid. Diana for Girls 1975, The TV Comic Annual, Top of the Pops. I like an eclectic look so they were on display next to all my old vinyl LPs.

I’ve still got all my Enid Blyton books, including the hardbacks that belonged to my mum. The Richmal Crompton, Just William series from my dad, sit next to them.

Then there is all my sci-fi and fantasy. My dad’s Princess of Mars series, which inspired both the movie, John Carter, and my puppy’s name, Woola.

What if I want a David Eddings binge? Or to re-visit Asimov, Heinlein, or Ready Player One?

The large, bookcase shaped hole in my living room hurts my heart.

I need content to inspire me

I am the queen of self-help books. I have a massive bookcase full of them. They would be a wonderful resource for my writing if only I could get to them. One flip, through one book would yield multiple ideas for articles.

When I need them most, my books are not there.

My knickers are disintegrating

When the real estate agent told us to de-clutter, she said to pack anything we could do without for three months. I decided that as I would be paying her a big chunk of money, I would at least get some value and heed her advice.

So for underwear, a slim, six-drawer, chest of drawers (literally) was pared down to one drawer in my dressing table.

It’s been nine months now, and the few pairs of knickers I selected to see me through are beginning to disintegrate.

Why won’t I buy new ones? Because I’m stubborn and bloody-minded. Why should I buy new, when I’ve already got ample, albeit over the other side of the city?

I want my rice-cooker

There is a recurring query from my beloved from the kitchen. Have we got a rice cooker, a platter, a wok, a rolling pin, a slow cooker? The answer is always, “Yes, but it’s packed.”

I’ve been to enough open homes to know what is expected in the kitchen. The kitchen is one of the rooms where prospective buyers are allowed to open the cupboards, and have a good nose through.

I’ve nosed through a lot of kitchen cupboards myself, and everything is pristine. Shabby tea towels? Half-empty, grimy cleaning products jumbled under the sink? A kitchen bench cluttered with blenders, knife sets, and wooden spoons.

No, no, and no! Not allowed.

The buyers are encouraged to superimpose their fantasy of living in your house onto a blank palette. No distractions such as actual lives are permitted.

My beloved is making do with the basics, though he is sneakily re-stocking on the sly. He thinks I haven’t noticed.

I need my party wine glasses and the dress-up box

I like to entertain and I have at least two big parties a year. A birthday party, and a New Year’s Eve party. My birthday party this year didn’t happen, but the New Year’s Eve party will.

All the sturdy wine glasses ($1 each from The Warehouse — no affiliate link), paper plates, and plastic knives and forks, are packed.

So are the twinkly fairy lights and the dress-up box.

Did I mention all my parties are fancy dress? Last year was uniforms, the year before Tarts & Vicars, and this year, Horror, to reflect the theme of 2020.

Usually, bits and bobs can be re-purposed as parts of a new outfit. This year, I’ll have to start from scratch with my outfit and risk the good wine glasses.

It’s not like Christmas without decorations

All the Christmas decorations, the tree, the lights, and baubles are all packed.

I enjoy putting up the Christmas decorations, though I know that by the end of the holiday, I’ll be gagging to take them down. But at least I usually get a choice of whether to put them up and which ones.

Some years I go over the top, other years, not so much.

Christmas this year won’t be quite so Christmassy without the decorations.

I’m yearning for the expensive crap I never use

I’ve always aspired to have a foot spa, like a soap star on the TV. My fantasy was that I’d sit there, in my fancy dressing gown, with my hair elegantly wrapped in a towel. Skin glowing,

I’d dip my delicate, pink foot into the water and relax. Ahhh, bliss!

The reality is somewhat different. I’m a bit of a miser, so I waited until one Christmas when the foot-spas were half price, and I got my daughter to buy it for me.

“I’ve just paid $60 for a fancy bucket,” she shrieked when I unwrapped it.

“But it has special bobbles on the base, and a plastic foot roller. And I can plug it in to keep the water warm,” I argued.

The relaxing bit never materialized. If I sit on my comfy sofa the angle is wrong to get my feet in the spa. If I sit at the table, I don’t feel relaxed.

Then there is the issue of being near a plug. To keep the water warm to prove the spa is more than a fancy bucket, I have to either sit near a plug or have an extension lead trailing all over the floor.

“Aha!” I thought, why not soak my feet while working at the table. Kill two birds with one stone. I can be an executive soap opera star.

But as well as killing the two birds, I was worried about killing myself. My feet in the plugged-in foot spa, tapping away on a plugged-in laptop, a health & safety disaster waiting to happen.

The strange thing is, I still yearn for my foot spa. As well as the dog grooming kit we don’t use because the dogs wriggle, the electric curlers that burn my scalp, and the nail buffing set that never worked.

Final thoughts

Although I did throw out and donate a whole heap of junk as I packed, I still want the things that survived the cull. I like pictures and photos. And photo frames. I love lighting up all my candles at once.

My books give me joy. Collecting and displaying sci-fi memorabilia makes me happy and cheers me up when I look at it. I’ve spent hours demonstrating that the Tardis biscuit tin makes the Tardis noise and lights up when the lid opens.

My home will never look like a magazine, and I’m OK with that. I don’t want it to.

Minimalism doesn’t make any sense to me. I stand by my earlier statement.

Minimalism sucks.