Minimalist Wannabe

I saw a picture of an updo, rolled and pinned with a sparkly pin and was instantly smitten. I wanted to attempt the same with my hair, even though I didn’t have any occasion for rolling my hair and adding a glittery pin. I bought this hair rolling thingy that was supposed to make updo’s a snap, but it does not stay in my hair and is completely useless. My hair is fine and flat as a pancake and doesn’t do a thing. If I were to truly face facts I would just give up and buzz my hair off, go the minimalist route with my mane and stop it with the hair delusions already. At least I will give up the updo hair thingy.

I’m letting go of the Make Your Beads and Jewelry book. I’m not going to make jewelry any time soon. Maybe when I am living a less cluttered life I will have room for crafting wonderful creations, but it hasn’t happened yet, so I shouldn’t keep unfulfilled dreams on a shelf.

I have big dreams of being crafty. I admire anyone who can create any thing. I’d like to be one of those people. I wanted to be a person who could make whimsical sock creatures, hence I bought this sock creature book. I have not attempted a single project. I am not a sock creature making kind of gal. I accept that now.

Oh Anthropologie, you always get me! They are marketing masters and know how to sell an aspirational lifestyle. I step into Anthro and I instantly want to wear flowing dresses and chunky baubles while throwing dinner parties with mismatched painted plates in my chic home filled with flora and fauna decor. Damn them. They aren’t selling the minimalist lifestyle, but I love the life they are selling. I’m a sucker.

I bought this shirt while drinking the Anthropologie Kool-Aid, and it tends to bother me when I wear it. I’m always adjusting something and fiddling with it, so it has to go.

There is no need to keep a plant pot that I find boring. If I were in the market for plant pots I would like whimsical ones. Like these:

Damn you Anthropologie! Why must you always tempt me with your fetching animal items? I’m not going to succumb, but they sure are cute. Unlike the plain pot I am unloading. Completely charmless and a snore.

I’m a sham. I am not a minimalist. I am half way through my month of getting rid of things, one spoon and nail polish at a time, but it is not getting me any closer to a minimalist mindset.

The other day a friend texted that she had a garbage bag of clothes she was getting rid of, was I interested? My head almost exploded. This is a friend with great style. I love what she wears, her lifestyle, how she decorates. Of course I wanted her cast offs! I have never responded so quickly to a text. Not only that, I then started harassing her about when I could collect these treasures, desperate to get at them as soon as possible. That night I had an ecstatic dream that another friend was giving me piles of boots. I used to have a similar recurring dream when I was a kid, involving people giving me giant bags of candy. While others dream of flying, or unlock their unconscious through symbols – Carl Jung style – I dream of footwear. Even my subconscious is covetous. Maybe I should stop fighting my true nature and just admit that I am a hoarder at heart who will never have a capsule wardrobe or bare cupboards.

I’m ashamed, but not ashamed enough to say no to my friend’s clothes. My heart sings and sinks at the same time.

As well as being a wool maven, my mom was also a macrame whiz. We had the macrame plant holder, wall hangings, and of course, the ubiquitous macrame owl. It was the seventies, what can I say. Macrame is making a comeback, but I know I won’t use this plant hanger. I feel bad because my mom made it, but getting rid of a macrame plant holder I won’t use doesn’t make me a disloyal daughter. She’s unloading things herself, she’ll understand.

My mom taught me how to embroider. She was amazing at it and always loved to use her hands, which unfortunately are now too arthritic. I have wonderful memories of the two of us sitting side by side on lawn chairs in the backyard with our embroidery hoops, enjoying quiet solidarity as our needles poked through fabric. I’ve held on to piles of wool thinking I will do something with it, but it is a tangled mess and the rare times that I have stitched anything, I’ve used embroidery floss. I can let it go and keep the sweet memories of my mom and I intact.

I don’t know how I ended up with so many black socks. They’re one of those things you always think you need, and next thing you know your sock drawer is a sea of balled up blackness. I had twenty four pairs of black socks. I cut that in half, thinking that I may want to go for two weeks without doing laundry and worrying about a black sock deficit, but I may revisit the count later and unload more. I’m sure The Minimalists don’t have twelve black socks between them, but that is why they call themselves The Minimalists and I am a Minimalist Wannabe.

I am a horrible muffin maker. I have yet to bake a successful muffin. My attempts are dense, horrible disasters that look and taste like hockey pucks. Well meaning bakers advise me that I am over mixing, so instead I under mix and my muffins end up harboring pockets of flour. My long suffering husband, the unfortunate sampler of my attempts, once plaintively begged me to stop making muffins.

I don’t even particularly like muffins, so I don’t know what ever possessed me to buy a mini muffin tin. I think it can go and the world can breathe a little easier at breakfast time.