Ok, I obviously love getting rid of stuff.
However, there are two deep, deep, subjects that I balk at dealing with...ever.
Most things, with years of practice and continued philosophical testing have started to come easy.
Money management, after years of practice that's easy.
Clothes, love to donate them.
Dust collectors (statues, odd n ends), VERY easy to get rid of (maybe a little too fun to smash or shoot in the desert.)
Cheap things that are easy to repurchase, why do I even own these?
As for my two worst subjects....
Books....I SWEAR, I WILL read them.
Papers....I'm pretty sure they reproduce. They are impossible to truly get rid of. Especially when I have a note of inspiration scribbled on an old receipt for a book idea that I've had.
The thing about books is I come from a book culture. My family is full of writers. My mom is a librarian. I grew up with two very tall book shelves set prominently in our living room. I've been writing since second grade. I'm an avid reader and like to quickly acquaint myself with whatever local library happens to be near by. I've always had a book shelf stuffed with books. I cry whenever I read about how the Nazi's burned books. Barnes and Noble is my happy place for spending money.
Granted, I'm not a stranger to donating books. It's just very, very, very difficult to convince myself that I will never read, re-read, or even reference a particular book. I try to think about it philosophically. Books are the absolute worst to move. They are heavy and awkward and if you're not reading them, they will collect dust. Once the knowledge or joy has been obtained, what use is it? I have a small collection currently with me and whole collection still waiting for me to sift through at my mothers house. Is it really worth it?
Yes.
Because I need them for professional reference both as a writer and as an aspiring body works expert.
What if I need reference materials when I retake certification exams?
What if this is the only reference I have to that particular inspiring myth?
It's a classic. I like to reread it.
Hello, it's The Hobbit.
I like books. I like having them. I like reading them. I like browsing my full shelf on rainy days and revisiting select passages. It makes my world complete. The only reason I'm not up to my eyeballs in books is because libraries exist.
I guess I can take comfort in knowing that I have the ability to donate books. It's just that more books than Marie Kondo would ever approve of still give me all kinds of joy. That's why, even though I love Barnes and Noble, I only visit once or twice a year.
As for papers. I do try, but I really do think they multiply. I try to revisit the subject on a regular basis for maintenance, but I'm pretty sure it's a losing battle.
We all have our struggles.
Showing posts with label stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuff. Show all posts
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Thursday, November 26, 2015
Black Friday No Way
Happy Thanksgiving!
Despite what you may assume from the title, I'm not bashing the idea of having Christmas sales so early in the year.
I AM going to get serious though. Every year, hundreds of thousands of people gather outside stores in the wee morning hours after Thanksgiving. These tired, turkey drugged shoppers then wait with increasing anxiety as the minutes slowly drag by until the store opens. Finally, one terrified associate is either bullied into or brave enough to turn the key and allow customers to swarm the store for the big sale.
Every year, someone dies.
That initial push always kills someone. A life, something irreplaceable and impossible to discount is lost. It doesn't happen very often, but it happens more often than it should.
Just to illustrate the point, imagine having to have this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, how did your beloved family member die?"
"Sales shopping."
Really? Is it worth it for someone to lose their precious family member and never see them again in future Thanksgivings?
Not to mention the arguing, the bickering, the stealing, the shop lifting, the easy theft, and the total disrepair of morals that would have held true had the shoppers been more awake, alert, and less desperate.
Granted, some families can only afford nice things on this one particular day. Yes, stores are trying to depressurize the day with online shopping and extending the sale around that particular day to the rest of the month.
Still, someone always dies.
For stuff.
For things that will wear out and break down and in the end only bring a few moments of pleasure.
For things that can be bought at the same price with the right discount and coupon combo any other day of the year or afforded with the right savings plan.
Why?
Because we are impatient. Because it's exciting to race. Because stuff is presented as bright and shiny and needed.
Historically, there have been times when a single death was all it took to enact cultural movements. Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination triggered World War I. Emmett Till's brutal murder sparked sympathy for the Civil Rights Movement. Today, people are shot by police and gangsters and plenty are in arms to call for things like gun reform, end of racism and police brutality.
People die on Black Friday and all you hear is, "Too bad. Isn't that so sad?"
There are no loud wars on the stuff culture. There are no cries for dis-banning the practice of Black Friday. Wars on the stuff culture don't turn profits. People don't like hearing the word "no" or the phrase, "you don't need that" or "you can't have it." I guess the major difference between the people who die shopping and the innocent people who die on the streets because of gang violence is that there is no solid bad guy, except for our culture of stuff.
Sorry for the especially dark post. As you read this, this holiday season, remember the people around you, and be aware of them, love them, watch out for them, protect them. Even if they're not your baby. If you are shopping early tomorrow, watch for the people that fall and then fight for their lives.
It's more important than any 75% discount.
Despite what you may assume from the title, I'm not bashing the idea of having Christmas sales so early in the year.
I AM going to get serious though. Every year, hundreds of thousands of people gather outside stores in the wee morning hours after Thanksgiving. These tired, turkey drugged shoppers then wait with increasing anxiety as the minutes slowly drag by until the store opens. Finally, one terrified associate is either bullied into or brave enough to turn the key and allow customers to swarm the store for the big sale.
Every year, someone dies.
That initial push always kills someone. A life, something irreplaceable and impossible to discount is lost. It doesn't happen very often, but it happens more often than it should.
Just to illustrate the point, imagine having to have this conversation.
"Oh, I'm sorry, how did your beloved family member die?"
"Sales shopping."
Really? Is it worth it for someone to lose their precious family member and never see them again in future Thanksgivings?
Not to mention the arguing, the bickering, the stealing, the shop lifting, the easy theft, and the total disrepair of morals that would have held true had the shoppers been more awake, alert, and less desperate.
Granted, some families can only afford nice things on this one particular day. Yes, stores are trying to depressurize the day with online shopping and extending the sale around that particular day to the rest of the month.
Still, someone always dies.
For stuff.
For things that will wear out and break down and in the end only bring a few moments of pleasure.
For things that can be bought at the same price with the right discount and coupon combo any other day of the year or afforded with the right savings plan.
Why?
Because we are impatient. Because it's exciting to race. Because stuff is presented as bright and shiny and needed.
Historically, there have been times when a single death was all it took to enact cultural movements. Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination triggered World War I. Emmett Till's brutal murder sparked sympathy for the Civil Rights Movement. Today, people are shot by police and gangsters and plenty are in arms to call for things like gun reform, end of racism and police brutality.
People die on Black Friday and all you hear is, "Too bad. Isn't that so sad?"
There are no loud wars on the stuff culture. There are no cries for dis-banning the practice of Black Friday. Wars on the stuff culture don't turn profits. People don't like hearing the word "no" or the phrase, "you don't need that" or "you can't have it." I guess the major difference between the people who die shopping and the innocent people who die on the streets because of gang violence is that there is no solid bad guy, except for our culture of stuff.
Sorry for the especially dark post. As you read this, this holiday season, remember the people around you, and be aware of them, love them, watch out for them, protect them. Even if they're not your baby. If you are shopping early tomorrow, watch for the people that fall and then fight for their lives.
It's more important than any 75% discount.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
My Conversion to Living Tiny
I know. Two tiny living posts in a row, but I felt inspired. One of the keys to being a good writer is to sometimes allow your inspiration to carry you away.
Why do I love tiny living? What is the appeal? I grew up in the largest house on our 70's middle class street and managed to snag the largest kid bedroom. By all predictions, tiny should not have been in my living standards vocabulary.
It all started with a cat.
Yes. A cat. I'm one of those people who enjoy snuggling warm soft fuzzy things that purr at me and cover me with sticky hair. I'm unashamed. When I was eleven I realized I wanted a cat, really, really badly. So badly, that for two months I would only check out books with cats in them especially if they were purely educational to impress my parents. After some bargaining, I convinced my parents that if I managed to keep my room white glove clean for a solid month, then I could be the proud owner of a tiny kitten. I got two kittens and I proudly took care of their every puke and water need.
That exercise taught me that a clean room was a pleasant room especially when compared to the bed of stuffed animals, clothes, and plastic that used to be my floor. I also learned that if you don't want your shirt to be vomited on, it's better to keep it off the floor.
Years later, I realized that my personal stress level would be great reduced after taking time to reorganize my room. As a creative person, I loved to relocate my furniture and this was more easily done when the room was clean. I also got a sense of pride displaying my hard work to my family members.
Hard work, done well, feels good, after all.
This all contributed to my enjoyment of organizing tons of stuff into boxes. However, I didn't really start to see the benefit of living with less until I worked a couple of summers cleaning out homes for some wealthy friends of my mother. They had big houses. Really big. And it was full to the brim with stuff they hadn't touched in years. My job was to help them get rid of it.
I remember one particular room. It was completely stocked with enough ramen noodles to keep a soup kitchen going for a month. It was bought and stored with the good intention of being a food source in case something bad happened. A noble precaution, except the food hadn't been checked on for so long that three mice had chewed, peed and pooped on every single package. The mice themselves were found dead on top of the crispy noodles. Probably from ramen noodle overdose. Incredibly, they were also expired.
Another house was so littered with tiny random things like paper and beads that hours of work felt like doing nothing at all. I remember sitting in a tiny five by eight work studio and just looking at the stacks of paper, crafts, music charts, and other tiny bits of stuff. The piles of things were stacked higher than my shoulder as I sat on the floor and I thought, "If that tipped over, I could be buried alive, and no one would ever know."
During those summers the question kept popping up over and over, "Who needs this much stuff?" The answer, of course, is always, "Well I do. That's why I bought it. Even if I can't remember why."
I learned a lot about the psychology behind keeping stuff that summer. A lot of the stuff they hadn't touched in years was labeled generally as, "just in case," or, "the project I started, but never finished, but I am going to finish it someday." While, "just in case" can be largely justified in terms of emergency or food storage, I feel like the second one is more emotionally based than logical. Honestly, it just seemed sad. It was a stress that wasn't necessary and it effectively cut off entire rooms from access to those who lived there. Those projects hadn't been touched in years. I knew they weren't going to finish it. They knew they weren't going to finish it. Yet they were content to let that project eat at the back of their "to do" list that is never completed. They were content to walk by open doorways or peak in the drawers of their home and feel the tiny pricks of guilt for not doing what they said they were going to do. Every. Single. Time. For. YEARS.
For some people I guess that works. It might even be a comforting thing. For people like me, it would be like continuing to eat sugar with a bad cavity. I can understand being desensitized to the thing, but that tiny prick of guilt does leave a mark somewhere in the esteem area of the subconscious.
Next reason for liking the tiny life style. I moved. A lot.
We all know moving is a pain. We also all know that moving with a lot of stuff is even more of a pain. Between college semesters, I got really good at downsizing to the bare essentials of living, if not to the bare essentials of play things like board games. The goal was to always pack into as few compartments as possible without overloading anything. Especially, if I knew I was going to be living on a top floor. This was also a time of my life when I began to get a real sense of cost vs the earned dollar. Money, particularly quarters, became extremely valuable. Living in an apartment with six girls who cook and only one fridge also taught me the value of space saving. Note: it's rude to take up fridge space with a pizza box, it's much better to store the pizza in a stack container or a ziplock.
After college, that dollar became even more important. I really wanted to live independently, but I really couldn't see a way clear for me to do it. Then, I learned about the tiny house movement. I was so enchanted with the idea that I bought the first two seasons of Tiny House Nation and spent a month researching composting toilets. My boyfriend at the time was more inclined to talk about general financial gains and design technicalities than to consider actually living in one, but I was hooked. Fiscal responsibility is very important to me. I also loved the idea of travel, of uniqueness, and customization for a smaller price a lot better than living in a house I couldn't afford. In that lifestyle there seemed to be a lot more time for living. I also liked the idea of not having a lot of "stuff" to deal with.
I still am.
Currently, I live in a shared apartment, but I really only use the space in my kitchen, my 8x4 bathroom, and my 8x8 bedroom. I don't really buy stuff. Whenever possible, I get rid of stuff. I moved states and packed all I owned into a tiny Subaru. Recently, I managed to fly with just a carry on back pack for the weekend using the Marie Kondo method of folding. I love how people are getting hooked on this idea that less is more.
There are at least ten different blue prints sketched out in my sketch book with ideas and designs for different rooms and living spaces. I plan to someday live in a tiny house all of my own, whether mobile or solid is yet to be determined. In the meantime. I continue to live in a way that tests myself and my ability to go tiny. Hey, 20-50,000 to build a home is still nothing to sneeze at. If you plan to build a tiny home, it's better to do years of testing first.
Why do I love tiny living? What is the appeal? I grew up in the largest house on our 70's middle class street and managed to snag the largest kid bedroom. By all predictions, tiny should not have been in my living standards vocabulary.
It all started with a cat.
Yes. A cat. I'm one of those people who enjoy snuggling warm soft fuzzy things that purr at me and cover me with sticky hair. I'm unashamed. When I was eleven I realized I wanted a cat, really, really badly. So badly, that for two months I would only check out books with cats in them especially if they were purely educational to impress my parents. After some bargaining, I convinced my parents that if I managed to keep my room white glove clean for a solid month, then I could be the proud owner of a tiny kitten. I got two kittens and I proudly took care of their every puke and water need.
That exercise taught me that a clean room was a pleasant room especially when compared to the bed of stuffed animals, clothes, and plastic that used to be my floor. I also learned that if you don't want your shirt to be vomited on, it's better to keep it off the floor.
Years later, I realized that my personal stress level would be great reduced after taking time to reorganize my room. As a creative person, I loved to relocate my furniture and this was more easily done when the room was clean. I also got a sense of pride displaying my hard work to my family members.
Hard work, done well, feels good, after all.
This all contributed to my enjoyment of organizing tons of stuff into boxes. However, I didn't really start to see the benefit of living with less until I worked a couple of summers cleaning out homes for some wealthy friends of my mother. They had big houses. Really big. And it was full to the brim with stuff they hadn't touched in years. My job was to help them get rid of it.
I remember one particular room. It was completely stocked with enough ramen noodles to keep a soup kitchen going for a month. It was bought and stored with the good intention of being a food source in case something bad happened. A noble precaution, except the food hadn't been checked on for so long that three mice had chewed, peed and pooped on every single package. The mice themselves were found dead on top of the crispy noodles. Probably from ramen noodle overdose. Incredibly, they were also expired.
Another house was so littered with tiny random things like paper and beads that hours of work felt like doing nothing at all. I remember sitting in a tiny five by eight work studio and just looking at the stacks of paper, crafts, music charts, and other tiny bits of stuff. The piles of things were stacked higher than my shoulder as I sat on the floor and I thought, "If that tipped over, I could be buried alive, and no one would ever know."
During those summers the question kept popping up over and over, "Who needs this much stuff?" The answer, of course, is always, "Well I do. That's why I bought it. Even if I can't remember why."
I learned a lot about the psychology behind keeping stuff that summer. A lot of the stuff they hadn't touched in years was labeled generally as, "just in case," or, "the project I started, but never finished, but I am going to finish it someday." While, "just in case" can be largely justified in terms of emergency or food storage, I feel like the second one is more emotionally based than logical. Honestly, it just seemed sad. It was a stress that wasn't necessary and it effectively cut off entire rooms from access to those who lived there. Those projects hadn't been touched in years. I knew they weren't going to finish it. They knew they weren't going to finish it. Yet they were content to let that project eat at the back of their "to do" list that is never completed. They were content to walk by open doorways or peak in the drawers of their home and feel the tiny pricks of guilt for not doing what they said they were going to do. Every. Single. Time. For. YEARS.
For some people I guess that works. It might even be a comforting thing. For people like me, it would be like continuing to eat sugar with a bad cavity. I can understand being desensitized to the thing, but that tiny prick of guilt does leave a mark somewhere in the esteem area of the subconscious.
Next reason for liking the tiny life style. I moved. A lot.
We all know moving is a pain. We also all know that moving with a lot of stuff is even more of a pain. Between college semesters, I got really good at downsizing to the bare essentials of living, if not to the bare essentials of play things like board games. The goal was to always pack into as few compartments as possible without overloading anything. Especially, if I knew I was going to be living on a top floor. This was also a time of my life when I began to get a real sense of cost vs the earned dollar. Money, particularly quarters, became extremely valuable. Living in an apartment with six girls who cook and only one fridge also taught me the value of space saving. Note: it's rude to take up fridge space with a pizza box, it's much better to store the pizza in a stack container or a ziplock.
After college, that dollar became even more important. I really wanted to live independently, but I really couldn't see a way clear for me to do it. Then, I learned about the tiny house movement. I was so enchanted with the idea that I bought the first two seasons of Tiny House Nation and spent a month researching composting toilets. My boyfriend at the time was more inclined to talk about general financial gains and design technicalities than to consider actually living in one, but I was hooked. Fiscal responsibility is very important to me. I also loved the idea of travel, of uniqueness, and customization for a smaller price a lot better than living in a house I couldn't afford. In that lifestyle there seemed to be a lot more time for living. I also liked the idea of not having a lot of "stuff" to deal with.
I still am.
Currently, I live in a shared apartment, but I really only use the space in my kitchen, my 8x4 bathroom, and my 8x8 bedroom. I don't really buy stuff. Whenever possible, I get rid of stuff. I moved states and packed all I owned into a tiny Subaru. Recently, I managed to fly with just a carry on back pack for the weekend using the Marie Kondo method of folding. I love how people are getting hooked on this idea that less is more.
There are at least ten different blue prints sketched out in my sketch book with ideas and designs for different rooms and living spaces. I plan to someday live in a tiny house all of my own, whether mobile or solid is yet to be determined. In the meantime. I continue to live in a way that tests myself and my ability to go tiny. Hey, 20-50,000 to build a home is still nothing to sneeze at. If you plan to build a tiny home, it's better to do years of testing first.
Friday, September 25, 2015
Refocusing on Tiny Lifestyle and the Dangers of Stuff
Next to dreaming about the children's book I'm illustrating and the YA novel I'm perfecting, I love to dream about someday living in a tiny house.
The thing I love most about the tiny life style is the simple, freeing, economics. I am a single millennial who grew up in a home that promoted thrift. Since entering the adult sphere I've also learned that just because you have full-time work you are not guaranteed to do/buy whatever you want.
And I'd always believed my parents were saying "no" just for my moral character.
This, among other adult lessons I've been learning, is why the cheapness and freeing aspect of tiny house living is just so appealing to me. Anything that increases your capacity to save, while decreasing your financial stress has to be a good thing.
I'm not in a position to build a tiny house yet, but I do try to live the lifestyle in my apartment situations. This does not make me infallible though. If there is a lesson to be learned in my recent life, it's this. If you value security, then avoid environments that promote a "stuff culture."
The seductive allure for stuff came to me because I had moved into a stuff environment. When I first moved, I had a solid growing budget and the few belongings I managed to fit into my ancient Subaru was plenty for me. Then, I moved into the apartment. You'd expect a stuff oriented apartment to look like an episode of hoarders, this was not the case. This is was the other kind of stuff environment where possessions were few, but expectations and tastes were high. It was beautiful with matching furniture and designs that would make a fashionista drool. The smooth, clean appearances and alluring smell of candle wax made it seem like the perfect apartment. What I didn't know, was that beneath the fog of wax, lay a budget devouring serpent that demanded lavish offerings.
The culture of keeping up appearances is a stressful one. I knew I wasn't totally happy and that I couldn't jive with my roommate. In the end it really came down to a difference in values. As each month past, all the comments started to wear on me. Topics about appearances and the need to "look nice." Continual requests to be quiet when closing the toilet seat to avoid advertising the embarrassing fact that even girls use the toilet. How who owned the most stuff or more of the contract was used as a lobbying tool for apartment rules. Demands that all things bought for the apartment must be first approved by my roommate. The constant stress of needing to appear put together and upscale was making the apartment anything but. Underneath it all, was the glaring truth that it was just a facade that none of us could afford.
Not knowing any better, I tried to fit in. I hate black, but the Walmart black furniture was the only affordable kind that was easy to match. Normally, I would have trolled the thrift stores for wooden constructs from the 70's, but I had this indescribable need to "match" with the apartment. Maybe, I thought if I looked like I fit in, then I would feel comfortable there. I even bought candle wax because I was worried my room didn't smell as good as the rest of the house and I didn't want to smell obviously human. The hungry stuff serpent bit me every time I went grocery shopping. I had this unusual desire to buy things I could buy then, but not afford long term like candle holders, fancy mirrors, cardboard quotes, and other useless items that only served as decoration. My roommate once bought a cardboard quote for our bathroom when we had been without a trash can for a month. Why? This didn't make sense to me. I felt like I was in this limbo world where needs and wants were standing on their heads.
It took me four months to realize how much my roommates attitudes and anxieties were affecting my spending habits and personal sense of well-being. I have no other word for the environment, but toxic. It was like a really nice looking hell populated by gremlins who look like Jim Henson's stuff lady puppets from the Labyrinth.
Thankfully, the contract was loose enough that it was more of a month to month agreement. As soon as I heard there was a vacancy elsewhere I jumped for it. My roommate couldn't believe I was willing to risk my deposit and just leave rather than stay and wait until I could find a replacement. She couldn't understand how much my freedom from that place was worth more than the $200. That's how different our values were.
My new apartment is organized chaos. The furniture doesn't match, but we recently got a giant elbow leather couch for just $100. It's a little messy, but comfortable, and it doesn't stink of candle wax. Within one hour of moving in, I felt welcomed and at home.
The sudden move reminded me about how one of my goals this years was to NOT buy stuff. I wanted to always be able to move easily and the current amount of stuff I own just wouldn't allow for it. The two pieces of furniture I justify because I had always planned to discard it once I moved states again and/or built a tiny house. Had I not moved, I probably would now be broke and have three or four pieces of furniture. Since moving into my new apartment, this is the first time I'd even recalled needing bookshelves. Which I don't.
My point. Stuff is attractive and your environment will largely dictate how you react to the "need" for stuff. If you find yourself in an unhealthy environment that compels you to buy stuff you don't need or can't afford, it may be time to re-asses the issue. What needs to change? Is it a manipulative roommate? It is a family member who has an unhealthy attachment to getting things? Is it the people you hang out with, or the neighborhood you live in? I never want to be in a "keeping up with the Jones's" environment ever again. I don't know how people do that for years. Those four months were exhausting enough.
The thing I love most about the tiny life style is the simple, freeing, economics. I am a single millennial who grew up in a home that promoted thrift. Since entering the adult sphere I've also learned that just because you have full-time work you are not guaranteed to do/buy whatever you want.
And I'd always believed my parents were saying "no" just for my moral character.
This, among other adult lessons I've been learning, is why the cheapness and freeing aspect of tiny house living is just so appealing to me. Anything that increases your capacity to save, while decreasing your financial stress has to be a good thing.
I'm not in a position to build a tiny house yet, but I do try to live the lifestyle in my apartment situations. This does not make me infallible though. If there is a lesson to be learned in my recent life, it's this. If you value security, then avoid environments that promote a "stuff culture."
The seductive allure for stuff came to me because I had moved into a stuff environment. When I first moved, I had a solid growing budget and the few belongings I managed to fit into my ancient Subaru was plenty for me. Then, I moved into the apartment. You'd expect a stuff oriented apartment to look like an episode of hoarders, this was not the case. This is was the other kind of stuff environment where possessions were few, but expectations and tastes were high. It was beautiful with matching furniture and designs that would make a fashionista drool. The smooth, clean appearances and alluring smell of candle wax made it seem like the perfect apartment. What I didn't know, was that beneath the fog of wax, lay a budget devouring serpent that demanded lavish offerings.
The culture of keeping up appearances is a stressful one. I knew I wasn't totally happy and that I couldn't jive with my roommate. In the end it really came down to a difference in values. As each month past, all the comments started to wear on me. Topics about appearances and the need to "look nice." Continual requests to be quiet when closing the toilet seat to avoid advertising the embarrassing fact that even girls use the toilet. How who owned the most stuff or more of the contract was used as a lobbying tool for apartment rules. Demands that all things bought for the apartment must be first approved by my roommate. The constant stress of needing to appear put together and upscale was making the apartment anything but. Underneath it all, was the glaring truth that it was just a facade that none of us could afford.
Not knowing any better, I tried to fit in. I hate black, but the Walmart black furniture was the only affordable kind that was easy to match. Normally, I would have trolled the thrift stores for wooden constructs from the 70's, but I had this indescribable need to "match" with the apartment. Maybe, I thought if I looked like I fit in, then I would feel comfortable there. I even bought candle wax because I was worried my room didn't smell as good as the rest of the house and I didn't want to smell obviously human. The hungry stuff serpent bit me every time I went grocery shopping. I had this unusual desire to buy things I could buy then, but not afford long term like candle holders, fancy mirrors, cardboard quotes, and other useless items that only served as decoration. My roommate once bought a cardboard quote for our bathroom when we had been without a trash can for a month. Why? This didn't make sense to me. I felt like I was in this limbo world where needs and wants were standing on their heads.
It took me four months to realize how much my roommates attitudes and anxieties were affecting my spending habits and personal sense of well-being. I have no other word for the environment, but toxic. It was like a really nice looking hell populated by gremlins who look like Jim Henson's stuff lady puppets from the Labyrinth.
Thankfully, the contract was loose enough that it was more of a month to month agreement. As soon as I heard there was a vacancy elsewhere I jumped for it. My roommate couldn't believe I was willing to risk my deposit and just leave rather than stay and wait until I could find a replacement. She couldn't understand how much my freedom from that place was worth more than the $200. That's how different our values were.
My new apartment is organized chaos. The furniture doesn't match, but we recently got a giant elbow leather couch for just $100. It's a little messy, but comfortable, and it doesn't stink of candle wax. Within one hour of moving in, I felt welcomed and at home.
The sudden move reminded me about how one of my goals this years was to NOT buy stuff. I wanted to always be able to move easily and the current amount of stuff I own just wouldn't allow for it. The two pieces of furniture I justify because I had always planned to discard it once I moved states again and/or built a tiny house. Had I not moved, I probably would now be broke and have three or four pieces of furniture. Since moving into my new apartment, this is the first time I'd even recalled needing bookshelves. Which I don't.
My point. Stuff is attractive and your environment will largely dictate how you react to the "need" for stuff. If you find yourself in an unhealthy environment that compels you to buy stuff you don't need or can't afford, it may be time to re-asses the issue. What needs to change? Is it a manipulative roommate? It is a family member who has an unhealthy attachment to getting things? Is it the people you hang out with, or the neighborhood you live in? I never want to be in a "keeping up with the Jones's" environment ever again. I don't know how people do that for years. Those four months were exhausting enough.
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