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. --
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 | 
