By Mark Mellott
I read a book about minimalism and
decided to adopt a Spartan lifestyle.
The next day I climbed into the
attic and removed college textbooks, a rock
collection, the original Star Trek videotape series,
a corroded cornet, Partridge Family albums, and much
more. I cleaned my belongings and attached a price
tag to each item.
At the garage sale the following
weekend, I sold all of my old treasures. With each
sale, I felt the burden of materialism lift from my
shoulders. I fell in love with my new use-it or
lose-it attitude. My mission in life now seemed
clearer. I sensed nirvana was just around the
corner.
A week later my daughter was born,
and the gifts poured in. The presents transformed
our house into a baby-pink obstacle course. After
tripping over baby items for two months, I felt my
blood pressure rising. “Can’t we do something about
this clutter?” I said to my wife.
She rolled her eyes. Tightened her
lips. “If you haven’t noticed,” she began, wagging a
finger at me, “I’m the one around here who feeds and
changes Rachel. I’m the one who cooks. I’m the one
who takes the dog for walks. So don’t give me any of
your minimalist garbage.”
“What I mean is—”
“Look,” she said, “if it makes you
feel better, there’s a bag in the den that can go in
the attic.”
“But I just cleaned it!”
She shot me an if-looks-could-kill
glare.
“Okay, okay,” I said, lifting up
my palms in surrender. “The attic.”
I went to the den and picked up
the bag. On my way out of the room, I tripped and
rammed into the wall. A family portrait crashed to
the floor, the glass exploding on contact. Rachel
screamed awake.
I saw my wife in Rachel’s room,
rocking her in her arms. She looked at me and
silently mouthed, “Get out!” I made a beeline to the
garage.
I climbed into the attic and
stared at the uncluttered plywood floor. A shiver of
minimalist pride ran down my spine. I looked at the
bag in my hand and told myself, it’s only temporary,
then put it down and left.
Rachel is now seven. Her brother,
Andrew, is five. I’m still a practicing minimalist,
but it hasn’t been easy. The attic is crammed full
of baby junk and every room in the house is littered
with kid stuff.
In an effort to set a good
example, I instituted a policy three years ago.
Whenever a new kid product comes into the house, I
discard a similar item from my collection of
material goods.
For example, the day after my wife
bought bicycles for the kids, I gave my mountain
bike to a charity. When my wife brought home kites
for the kids, I donated my model airplanes to a
museum.
Six months ago, my son came home
from school and handed me a bag.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“A hygiene kit,” he said.
“Not more stuff!”
Andrew shrugged his shoulders.
I walked to the bathroom and
tossed my toothbrush and dental floss into the trash
can. I turned and saw Andrew standing behind me. I
bent down and whispered in his ear, “I’ll give you a
quarter if you let me use your hygiene kit.”
“Nope,” he said.
“Does Rachel have extra
toothbrushes?” I asked.
“Yeah, but they’re for her dolls.”
“Damn!” I said, gritting my teeth.
Before Andrew’s birthday three
months ago, I asked my wife’s parents to buy him
just toys because I was reaching a critical point in
my minimalist existence. Grandma and grandpa didn’t
listen. They purchased three new outfits for him.
I had no other option. Shedding a
tear, I parted with my last pair of pants, my only
shoes, and the ratty T-shirt I’d been wearing for
the last month.
The day after Andrew’s birthday,
standing at the curb in just underwear, I kissed my
family good-bye, stepped into the taxi, and told the
driver, “Southern California.”
Rachel will celebrate her eighth
birthday next week. I want to send her a note, but
there are no pens or paper at Nick’s Naked
Nirvana—the nudist colony I now call home.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mark is a
husband and father of two active children who give
him more pleasure than he imagined possible. His
humor articles have appeared in The Storyteller,
Vecino, and The Southwest Sage |
