Minimalist Wannabe

It was going to be thirty days of unloading, but then I realized that August has thirty-one days. I will carry on. In fact, I think I will carry on beyond the month long challenge. There is more to purge. Of course, if I had followed The Minimalist’s thirty day challenge I would have been challenged out of all my clutter. I took the easy route, I’ll admit it. I’m a half-assed minimalist at best, but a half-assed minimalist is better off than a full on hoarder, non? On the other hand, if you are going to do something, you should do it right. Wholeheartedly with commitment and gusto, not declutter one lousy hair tie at a time. On the other hand, even if the process is slow, I’m still on the path, right? Perhaps I will be the tortoise of minimalists, rather than the hare, but if I eventually cross the minimalist finishing line, it’s all good, right?

Therefore, in the spirit of being a tortoise-like minimalist, I offer this as my declutter item of the day:

It’s a nose whistle. I bought a few. I couldn’t think of anything more awesome than a device that could let me play my nose like an instrument, but alas, I never mastered the art. It is hardly a significant item, barely takes up any space, but it’s leaving and that’s the most important thing.

I bought this top/dress at Goodwill, thinking that it would be an airy tunic-like item that would be comfortable and carefree. Instead, I look like I am with child. In the past I have been asked if I am pregnant when I am wearing billowy tops. As a public service to all women, never ever ask a woman if she is pregnant unless you are absolutely positive that she is. There should be a baby’s head visibly crowning before you ask.

Perhaps if I wore this tunic with a belt ( see day twenty-nine) people would be less inclined to pat my belly and ask about the big day, but since it has been established that I am not a belt wearer (yet still holding on to my belts) I will get rid of this billowy top and save everyone from future embarrassment and faux pas.

I am not a belt person. I admire others who wear belts and look pulled together and accessorized, but it never seems to work for me. For some reason I think I’ll magically turn into a belt person one day and therefore hold onto my belts, although I should probably dump them all. For now I will chuck this one. Baby steps.

I am finally getting rid of a toner that has been gathering dust under the bathroom sink. I was talked into buying it by a persuasive esthetician who had me as a captive audience when I was getting a facial and made me feel like a beast because of all the sun damage i inflicted on myself when I used to skip school to sunbathe and smoke cigarettes in my friend’s backyard. We didn’t know any better at the time. I was young and foolish and now I have a speckled egg face as punishment.

For the record, I really felt like I had it going on after a day of suntanning, applying my frosty lipstick and donning a coral shirt to highlight my tan.

Anyway, I broke out after my facial and I was worried that the toner may have been the culprit. It was probably the stress of realizing that I am probably five years away from looking like a piece of beef jerky, but I have been too scared to use the toner ever since. At the same time, I felt too guilty to throw it away because I paid too much for it and felt like an idiot. I am finally going to let it go to make more room under the bathroom sink for sunscreen and concealer to hide my sun damage.

I got this cookbook at a girlie swap. I’m usually a sucker for cookbooks, food porn addict that I am. I don’t know if I am just feeling extra snarky, but this cookbook  annoys me. There seems to be an underlying tone of smugness, a little too much about “our little family travels the world and eats gluten free and our baby loves artichokes and we’re gorgeous and leading a better life than you….” Perhaps I’m being unfair. After all, I’ve tolerated smugness in cookbooks before. I have both of Gwyneth Paltrow’s cookbooks and some would say she’s the queen of smug. Her recipes are great though, so I can tolerate the superiority, even when she has photos like this:

Who’s that intense sniffing fruit?

There are only so many smug cookbooks one woman can endure, so I am saying good bye to this one, unfair or not.

There is nothing particularly wrong with this t shirt. It’s fine and has served me well for several years. I have a lot of white tees though. How many does one person need? Especially an aspiring minimalist? I think I can let one old white tee go.

This one hurts. Look at these shoes! They’re adorable. Super adorable. It hurts to even look at a photo of them because they are so cute and I can’t believe that I am giving them away. The thing is, I never wear them. Any time I try to wear them I feel very wobbly in them and have terrible visions of breaking my ankle. I don’t know what it is about them, but for some reason they feel unstable and make me feel unstable along with them. I can’t keep them in my closet just because they are so cute that I want to read them bedtime stories and spoon them at night. No one said this unloading thing would be easy. This is where the challenge part comes in I guess. Ouch.

I am not a gym person. The thought of getting sweaty and panting in public is not my thing. I do not want to make new friends. Seeing other people working out does not motivate me. Macho guys grunting and staring at their muscles does not turn me on. I’m too modest to shower in public. I once witnessed a woman casually blow drying her public hair in the change room like it was the most natural thing in the world. Ugh ugh ugh.

I was deluded enough to believe that I would exercise at home and purchased a couple of exercise DVD’s at Value Village. I have never watched them. They’re going back to Value Village and I will continue to whine about my muffin top.

Gifts are hard to get rid of. I think of the intention of the giver and the thought they put into the gift and I feel like an ingrate. But then again, if I am not using and appreciating the gift, I’m being an ingrate anyway, right? I may as well pass it on so that someone else can appreciate it.

A friend gave me this shirt. I know she chose it because it has a flower-child, crafty look that I am a sucker for. She knows this and chose accordingly. It’s a lovely blouse but it isn’t working on me. I’ve put it on a number of times and always end up taking it off again. I appreciate the gesture, I am duly noting the love from the giver and now I am going to pass it on to someone who will be able to pull it off better than I can. Guilt free.

Speaking of guilt, I am still mortified by my Manhattan Episode. I lost a full day of my life just feeling miserable and will stick to my resolve of being a  minimalist cocktail partaker. There is something to be said for minimalism after all.

Today I purged the contents of my stomach. I am hung over and mortified and feel like a shaky legged new born fawn. I don’t know what happened. Yes I do. It was the two Manhattans I drank. Delicious. I’d never had one before, but anything with a maraschino cherry has to be fun and benevolent, no? I followed that with too much red wine. Followed by prosecco. Followed by suddenly feeling woozy and terrible and getting sick. Followed by having to be in the elevator carrying a plastic bag of vomit and sleeping on the bathroom floor all night, waiting for death. I am not a teenager. I should know better. I will be a minimalist imbiber from now on, I swear.