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Not too shabby for my first week I suppose, now that I am coming to terms with the idea that I may have a shopping problem.

Here’s what I bought:

1. Doggie poop bags.You need to pick up your dog’s poo, so these are actually an essential so they shouldn’t even be on the list. Strike it!
2. A coffee with my girlfriend. She brought me a bowl of quinoa and roasted vegetables because she knew I’d be hungry, so I didn’t have to buy lunch. How sweet is that? Plus she introduced me to steamed radishes. Who knew you could steam radishes? It was a revelation. She threw them in a bowl with some water , steamed them for six minutes in the microwave and tossed them with butter. Delicious.
3. A delicious eggplant roti, but I’m actually not counting food yet. Maybe eventually if I get really good at this no shopping thing, but for now I am not counting consumables. So strike that. And I guess I can strike the coffee I bought on the day of the revelation radish too, yippee! I’m doing so well!
4. I bought The Art of Memoir by Mary Karr. There. I admit it. I am justifying this purchase because I know it is the kind of book that I will want to revisit and reread on numerous occasions, so it was worth getting. I am loving and hating it. Loving because it is wonderfully written and inspiring, hating it because I am tormented by the idea that I will never come close to having anything poetic and interesting to say. If only I could go shopping to make myself feel better and fill my angst-ridden void. Sigh.
5. I window shopped in Zara and didn’t buy a thing, although now I am obsessed with this dress with it’s crisp little collar.

Look how happy she is in her dress! I’m obsessed. Obsessed. One should not go in shops when on a shopping ban. That’s basic shopping ban 101. Damn my OCD, why couldn’t my OCD make me obsessive about cleaning rather than cute collared dresses?

I’m nervous as I write this because I don’t quite trust myself, but I am declaring November my no shopping month. It may be finally dawning on me that I am a shopping addict because I am already panicking. What about the Church bazaar I am going to this month? How can I resist the baked goods? What if I find the perfect commemorative souvenir tshirt in Iceland? What if I find waterproof warm boots on sale? What if I run out of my favourite Body Shop Body Butter? Oh the dilemmas, the questions, the panic. That’s the sound of an addict isn’t it?

Like an addict I have to tell myself one day at a time.

Some people give themselves a shopping ban for a year. I’d love to do that but I am already feeling my brow grow damp in week one, so I am not going to push it. Maybe I am not meant to be a minimalist, but I do not want to be a mindless consumer either, so taking a shopping break is a good start.

I attended my first Creative non fiction class this week at U of T. I was surrounded by political activists fighting for First Nations, the abused, the environment. People who enjoyed writing research papers for their masters in political science. People who named authors I’ve never heard of while the rest nodded emphatically.

I’m superficial and a bimbo. I could feel my cheeks burning and my armpits growing damp. I felt about as inspiring as a pan of milk and as deep as a teaspoon.

I was so shaken by the experience that I stopped at Joe Fresh on the way home and bought myself a flannel shirt. What better way to make myself feel better than to buy a shirt I don’t need, particularly one that was most likely made in a sweatshop.

I suspect that we will be work-shopping a classmate’s essay about third world exploitation on the day I wear my Joe Fresh shirt. I may as well embroider vapid on the collar right now.

It’s the end of the Thanksgiving long weekend here in the Great White North, so it seems fitting to share a little list of gratitude:

1. I’m grateful for Tofurkey, even though it resembles an over processed football. It’s delicious and I no longer feel guilty about eating a turkey. Their beady eyes and flapping necks are just too heartbreakingly cute old-lady-like.
2. I’m grateful that it was a gorgeous weekend that felt more like spring than fall.
3. I’m grateful for a walk through the beltline trail with The Sweetie and the dog this morning.
4. I’m grateful that Toronto has so much green space to enjoy right in the middle of the city.
5. I’m glad that we hightailed it out of the parking lot of Edward’s Gardens that was packed with people ready come to blows over parking spots.
6. I’m grateful that the KitKat I ate this afternoon was super fresh and crispy.
7. I’m grateful that my last client canceled in order to watch the Blue Jays game and I could leave work while the sun was still shining.
8. I’m grateful for the love I have in my life. My soulmate, my family, my friends, the perfect dog. Life is pretty sweet.
9. I’m grateful for this video of a threatening turkey. It never gets old.

I’m middle aged and barely acquainted with social media, so this article , The #LuckyGirl’s Lie, about the pressure female millennials face to appear perfect doesn’t apply to me. I’m intrigued anyway.

Apparently young women are posting shots of themselves on instagram looking like they are leading perfect lives. (Isn’t that typical of all social media?) The article talks about how women will say they are lucky, rather than acknowledge the blood, sweat and tears it takes to get where they are. It mentions researchers in Stanford who say young women want to appear as ducks, “seen as serenely gliding along, but in fact under the surface are paddling ferociously.” I love that image. Maybe there is a correlation between that and the horrid duckface every young woman seems to make when posing for selfies?

See? I’m old and out of touch. I don’t do selfies or social media, I just make snarky remarks about duckface girls like a crusty old codger. What do I know?

I do know that there is tremendous pressure on women to be perfect and have it all. Like author of Curse of the Good Girl Rachel Simmons says, declaring oneself as lucky is a “commentary more about women’s reluctance to take ownership of their accomplishments.” That could be true. Nothing comes easy and to shrug off one’s accomplishments as luck discounts the effort that it takes to get anywhere, especially as a woman. At the same time, however, I feel like luck does often play a big role in who gets the shiny stick and who gets the shitty end.  I know a lot of smart, savvy women who work hard and still don’t rise to the top. I know wonderful, gorgeous women who are looking for a partner and can’t get a date. I know super health conscious women who get diagnosed with breast cancer. Sometimes luck does play a role.

I feel fortunate about a lot of things in my life that are not a result of hard work or because I am more deserving than someone else. It is all dumb, blind luck. I want to acknowledge it because luck can change on a dime. If I say I am a lucky girl, I am not #humblebragging or “blatant envy baiting”, as the article implies. Can’t a person be sincerely grateful without being an asshole?

I have placed a hold at the library on Luckiest Girl Alive by Jessica Knoll, the book that prompted The #Luckygirl’s Lie article. I am number 431 in the queue for the book. Now that I am trying to be a minimalist I can’t just rush out and buy the book to appease my curiosity. Obviously, with that many holds, the book is hitting a nerve. At least to the younguns.

Thanksgiving is this weekend. I am thankful for all that I am fortunate enough to enjoy. I will happily and quietly say that I am a lucky girl.

 

 

You know how minimalists always say one should opt for experiences over objects? It’s true. But what do you do if the experience makes you want to extend the experience by purchasing a cookbook? There’s the dilemma.

(I pulled this photo from the Bloor Cinema Twitter page. Am I allowed to do that? I’m not sure, but look how adorable they both are!)

I went to the first of a lecture series, Food for Thought, at the Bloor Cinema yesterday with my favourite foodie friend to hear a conversation with David Sax and culinary legend Bonnie Stern. She was absolutely charming. Her ideas about cooking are down to earth and homey and all about sharing love through food. My kind of cook. At the intermission we were treated to brownies Bonnie had baked and brought to the lecture. Could she be more adorable? My friend and I were high- fiving ourselves for attending something out of the ordinary on a Tuesday morning. Experiences always win. Then we noticed that her cookbook, with the extraordinary brownie recipe, was for sale. Of course we both bought the book. I don’t need another recipe book. I could spend the rest of my life cooking a new recipe every day and I still wouldn’t get through all the recipes I’ve collected, but her brownies were just so fudgey and perfect that I had to do it.

Experiences are great. Experiences with a cookbook purchase containing a brownie recipe are even better.

I want to pare down on my possessions but not by breaking them, and especially not by breaking something meaningful.

I broke one of my grandfather’s vases today. I was moving a plant and accidentally knocked the vase from the dresser. Each piece of pottery I own comes with the memory of my grandfather, who had a pottery wheel and kiln in the basement of his tiny house. I am reminded of his big hands molding unwieldy lumps into something delicate, and thirty years after his death something of him remains on my shelves.

So often it is the sentimental piece that falls to it’s untimely demise while the ugly Ikea vase remains intact for all of eternity.

It’s a good lesson though, and one that all the declutter experts try to emphasize. An object does not represent the person. A vase is not my grandfather and a broken vase does not mean that my memories of him are any less vivid. The void of a lost loved one cannot be filled by holding onto object that we somehow feels represents them. An object is just an object.

It’s easy to be a minimalist when you are flattened with the plague, or a cold, I haven’t decided which one I have.

I’ve been a hacking, sweating bundle of misery for a few days and today I finally allowed myself to do nothing but sleep in that weird sick stupor kind of way, have an Epsom salt bath and drink fizzy vitamin c drinks.

It felt really good.

I am not a sick martyr type. I am not stoic. I will be the first to whine and boo-hoo to anyone who will listen. Somehow though, the past few days were too full to cancel and I had to sleepwalk my way through them and put my whining on hold. I should have known I was on my way to getting flattened when I started having dreams in which I was complaining about how tired I was, while I was sleeping!

After my day of doing nothing guilt free, I feel like maybe I will in fact see another day. It would be nice to have more of those days without the sick part: just check out and revel in doing nothing, gloriously stretching into it. There is always time for being busy, there should be more time for being deliciously lazy without needing to be sick to do it.

 

This past weekend I spent heavenly time at a cottage. Just The Sweetie, me and the dog. It was pure heaven to lounge and be, having no itinerary other than when we would enjoy happy hour on the dock. The dog played frisbee non stop, we ate like kings and forced ourselves to plunge into the lake every day, even though we started losing feeling in our toes within thirty seconds.

All it takes is a little time in nature to get some perspective again. All the material things that bog us down and entrap us mean nothing when you get a chance to stop and breathe some fresh air, admire silver dew on the grass in the morning and watch your dog roll around on the dock, soaking wet and ecstatic. I know it’s corny and there may be collective barf sounds resonating throughout the land right now, but come on, it’s true. Who cares what you wear or what throw pillows are on your floor or what products are in your hair when you are lucky enough to have love, food and a dog?

After thirty one days of unloading piddly items from my apartment I started to have a niggling memory of a book I saw years ago: Nobody Cares What You Had for Lunch, by Margaret Mason. It’s an instructional book for writing interesting blog posts that won’t make a reader fall asleep, poke out their eyeballs and click in a frenzy to leave the page. It started to dawn on me that nobody cares what I unloaded day by day, and why should they? Then again, why should I care if anyone cares? It’s my minimalist journey, or non minimal journey from the looks of things. Above all it should be a chronicle of my own struggles and if posting makes me feel more accountable or shamed, great, but if anyone else is interested shouldn’t be a concern.

I like reading about other minimalists, but they are actually living the life. Looking at other minimalist blogs is like aspirational reading. It is inspiring to hear about people shedding their items and living more meaningful lives. It’s fun to look at cute girls sporting minimalist outfits and a topknot. I, on the other hand, am a middle aged woman without a lot of style who seems to be losing her hair, so my hair in a topknot is not a cute sight. I went to my doctor who said it could be perimenopause, which isn’t at all comforting, as I imagine that soon I will have a receding hairline and a full beard. Thanks hormones. Looks like if all else fails I will be a hair follicle minimalist. In the meantime, I will continue posting what I unload if it makes me slowly get through my piles of useless stuff.

( And I read one of the Amazon reviews of No One Cares What You Had for Lunch that said one of her suggestions for an interesting blog post was about your lunch, so what’s that about?)