I’m a sham of a minimalist. I just tried to write a story about the joy of less for an upcoming Chicken Soup for the Soul book. I waxed poetic about uncovering the real self when material objects are stripped away, my epiphany about how I actually need very little and wouldn’t be too fussed if everything disappeared, and how I am happier living a less cluttered life.
Meanwhile, I bought a bathing suit today. A white bathing suit. Doesn’t everyone warn you against white bathing suits? The combination of ghostly skin against stark white and the fact that white is not slimming should be enough to make everyone run in the opposite direction. And don’t white bathing suits become completely see-through when they get wet? That is probably why it was on sale. (final sale of course, so now I can’t even return it and appease my buyer’s remorse). If it’s true confession time I also bought a pair of sandals I don’t need. Damn these summer sales.
To think I then scurried home with my useless bathing suit and unnecessary sandals and wrote an essay about the joy of less. I’m a hypocrite with a white bathing suit just waiting to mortify me the first time I jump in a lake.