So here we are. I have made a decision to purchase no clothes in 2021. Not “no new clothes”, which could leave an opening to go thrifting. I mean: nothing new for which I exchange money is to enter my closet.
I am hovering between thinking that this is the most frivolous and privileged kind of resolution I could make, and wondering if I am capable of being stronger than my urges to have something new.
Can it be both? Can it be frivolous on its surface but also kinda scary because I will have to deal with myself rather than throw money at my self-worth problems? Yes. It has to be both, because it is both.
I need to establish some rules and some goals, for fear that I am going to find ways to finagle some loopholes. So here we go:
☐ Do not purchase any new (or gently used) clothes or accessories (including but not limited to: shoes, socks, hats, scarves) in 2021
☐ Do an inventory of what you have and write it all down. Keep track of how many times you wore it, repairs you need to do or have done. Extra points for being able to remember where you bought it or how it entered the Pantheon and a good memory attached to it.
☐ Keep a log of the outfits you love so that if you are feeling frumpy or unhappy with this challenge and feel like you have nothing to wear, you can find something to scratch that itch.
☐ Plan outfits ahead of time. Set them out the night before as part of your evening routine so that in the morning you don’t have to think about it.
☐ Repair and mend as necessary. Build time to do this into your evening routine. Mend one little thing each day.
In 2021, my heart is not going to be found hanging on neatly arranged hangers in my closet. Hopefully, it will be found enjoying Play-Doh moments and wrestling with rapscallions on the living-room rug.
Something has to give. I don’t want my treasure to be found in my closet. This cycle of wanting-seeking-owning-loathing also has to end. I feel like it has ruled me for as long as I can remember and I want to find a way out from underneath it.
I have lived in this cycle for so long that I honestly can’t imagine what life would look like for me if I didn’t live in it. I want out.
What’s more, if living in our little space depends, in any small way, on me, then I need to do something to stop adding to what is here.
So this gauntlet that I am throwing down looks like this: I am not to purchase any new clothes in 2021.
When I write it like that, it seems like such a small thing. But heavens to Betsy, it doesn’t seem like a small thing when I think about what that means.
That means darning holes in my socks. It means learning how to mend my jeans that are coming apart at the back pockets. It means making my pretty underthings last for a whole year.
It means coming face to face with the urge (because that is what it is, right?) to accumulate stuff. It means examining my own heart when I think that some new thing will make me feel complete.
Given that I have been unrelenting in my tracking of expenditures on clothing for the last year, I know exactly how much money out of pocket I could save if I could stem the bleeding. So there is an upside to this: I could save our family money instead of costing our family money.
I am going to keep this our little secret. First of all, if I fail, then you can be my confessor and my indulgent husband won’t have to know.
Second, I expect this to be emotionally complicated. I mean, I am going to try to undo several decades of trying to fill my soul with things instead of whatever is supposed to go in there. I don’t want or need my family to deal with the junk that is in my soul.
I will establish the rules of my challenge shortly, but the long of the short of it is: I am not to spend money for any new clothes in 2021.
I am a numbers girl. It borders on obsessive, a fact about which I am equal parts embarrassed and proud. My inner geek gets very excited about Key Performance Indicators and Return on Investment.
I love progress. I am motivated by seeing things move forward.
This love of progress and forward movement is not well served by being a parent. It seems that there is zero progress most days and any forward movement is undone after five minutes. I mean, why bother vacuuming if an indulgent father is going to give a bowl of chips to a scalawag who will then be pushed by his brother, consequently spilling his chips, grinding them into the rug so I have to vacuum again?
I have yet to find the KPI that will help me see the needle move on this kind of thing.
That said, I remain motivated by numbers in my own little obsessive way. For example, I know exactly, to the penny, how much money I spent on clothes over the last two years. I know how many times I wore each piece of clothing that entered the Pantheon (oh, you don’t know what the Pantheon is? It is what I call my wardrobe. Pantheon of Legends. Please don’t judge me for getting my kicks where I can.)
I can consequently tell you what the CPW (cost per wear) is for those items. I can tell you that it is worth it to buy the expensive socks, but that a thrift store dress is definitely more satisfying than a full-price one. Satisfying being measured in having a lower CPW. (Did I not tell you that I’m a geek?)
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:21
The Pantheon is not the only place in which I have a sunken treasure, but it is the one for which I have the most careful records.
Somewhere around February of 2020 I had made it my goal to get my CPW below 1€ for each of the items in the Pantheon. For many items this was easy (especially the thrift store finds). For others, not so much. Even if a snazzy dress only costs 10€, wearing said snazzy dress ten times can be challenging!
Finally, I had to shift my focus to having the global average CPW below 1€. (As of December 31, I still have found only 2 occasions to wear that snazzy dress.)
The truth remains: There is a genuine treasure trove in my closet. That’s where my treasure is. It’s therefore, according to that famous Bible verse (Matthew 6:21, in case you care to look it up) where my heart is too.
So here is the question I am faced with today: Is my closet really where I want my heart to be?
There is one thing I can unequivocally state: No thing will make life perfect. Perfect moments are born of something intangible, something that goes beyond the sum of the objects. Things can participate in the making of a perfect moment, but they are not the assurance of perfect moments.
Case in point: my boys were crazy all morning. It was pouring rain. After an aborted attempt at at playing in the woods, we returned home. They were insane. Running, wrestling, breaking things, tearing apart the couches. And then suddenly, one wanted to play Play-Doh. Suddenly, there were four of us sitting at the table playing Play-Doh, using the Play-Doh oven and making Play-Doh snakes. A little moment of perfection passed through. Not because of the Play-Doh oven or the four new pots of Play-Doh we cracked open. But because there were the four of us, because we were all involved, because we weren’t fighting or negotiating.
No one could have created that moment. Yes, there were things, but the things did not make the moment.
I vacillate frequently between a fervent desire for the monastic minimalism of living in a hotel room, and reality, which is that I live on Earth with other humans and therefore must face it that stuff is going to be part of our story.
What I want is for that stuff to not be in control of me and my space; on the other hand, I want more Play-Doh moments, where I can be the hero by bringing out four new pots of Play-Doh that I have kept sacredly hidden for a moment like this. I want this to be a reality without forgetting where I put them, without having to move two suitcases and a sewing machine to get to them, or even forgetting that I had them at all.
I have a recurring thought when it comes to the Stuff of Life: Where your treasure is your heart will be too. I will be exploring this thought in further detail in another post, but it’s worth mentioning here too.
For me, treasure in this context means money: whatever I sink my money into is where my heart is going to be.
If I want my heart to be fully present for my family (this desire can fluctuate, given how the scalawags are behaving on any given day), then my heart needs to not be on the money pit that can be my hobbies, my wardrobe, my coffee mugs. This is basic math.
The Stuff of Life is a catalyst for contented living, it is not life itself.
If I want more Play-Doh moments, I need to stop investing in Play-Doh and start playing with it.
My boys are currently five and almost four years old. This puts them at the very heart of an extremely selfish phase in which neither parental unit can even take out the trash without being asked “what did you buy me?” upon their return.
In an effort to keep our apartment relatively uncluttered, we are not big on collecting stuff for stuff’s sake. I am a proponent of the “practical gift” or the “experience gift”, which takes up no space and can provide a pleasant memory. This year, my sister, who lives on the other side of the world, did both of these.
She managed a feat this Christmas with those two little boys that highlighted a fascinating phenomenon that I think deserves to be examined: she harnessed the power of anticipation to make the pleasure they took in their Christmas gift last well beyond the tearing of wrapping paper. The pleasure lasted for two months leading up to Christmas and is still as strong today.
It started in October when the boys let it slip during one of their Saturday evening FaceTime chats with their aunt that they both wanted a new backpack for Christmas. Immediately, she started asking all the right questions. The boys each had pretty specific ideas of what they wanted. I don’t remember the details, but the word “sleek” was tossed about liberally as if we all understood what that meant as applied to a child’s backpack.
My sister went on Amazon and started sending me links. When it came down to it, I had no idea what sleek meant. I didn’t know, so I showed them the backpacks she proposed. Some were rejected out of hand for not having enough pockets or not being sleek enough.
And then came the day that she struck gold: she found the perfect backpacks. The boys were over the moon. I took a screen shot of them.
For every single day between the day they found their hearts’ desires and Christmas morning, they asked to see the photos of their backpacks. They examined every detail. Every. Detail. They knew their backpacks by heart. They talked about their backpacks together, each having memorized all the details of the other’s.
Because the delivery was done with discretion, they never knew they arrived. A few days before Christmas, the eldest scalawag looked up and saw an airplane in the sky and said, “look…that must be the airplane bringing our backpacks.”
On Christmas Eve, he was very concerned that the backpack had not arrived. He told me we needed to drive to the airport because surely there had been a problem.
On Christmas morning there were tears because the backpacks were tucked behind other little gifts and not visible at first sight.
And then the most exquisite gift opening occurred: their anticipation was satisfied. They opened every pocket, examined every detail, finally holding in their grubby scalawags hands what they had only seen in photos for two months. They wore their backpacks everywhere all weekend. They filled them and unfilled them, talking about how they were going to show all their friends at school.
We took pictures and videos of them wearing their new backpacks to send to their aunt, since she couldn’t be here for the unveiling.
I have long believed that the anticipation of a thing is better than the obtaining of said thing. In this case, I believe that the anticipation contributed to the pleasure they are taking in the thing.
These are my takeaways from my sister’s demonstration of gift giving prowess:
I feel like I have spent my entire life searching after some thing that will bring me satisfaction. I can, and probably will, continue to dissect this urge for the remainder of my earthly life.
I have a vivid memory of Christmas morning as a child, seeing what today I would consider the embarrassment of abundance under the tree. I remember consciously thinking to myself, “There is happiness under that tree.”
My memory is equally as vivid of sitting in the living room, surrounded by torn wrapping paper and piles of lovely things and feeling emptier than such a small child has a right to feel.
I remember being ten years old and saving up my allowance of one dollar a week to buy a stone-washed denim jacket from K-Mart that I’d had my eye on. (Incidentally, this was also the day that I learned that sales tax was added on top of the purchase price in the state of Ohio, where I grew up, but I digress.) I was not even out the door with my fancy snap front stone-washed denim jacket (for which my mother had to chip in the ninety-eight cents sales tax) and I was already feeling the painful twinge of buyer’s remorse.
I have dozens of memories like this.
That’s all there is?
This isn’t what I thought it would be.
Thoughts like these have leaked out of my unsatisfied soul for as long as I can remember.
An interest becomes an obsession. (I love this and I must have it.) An obsession becomes a by-all-(legal)-means-necessary drive to possess. (I will finally be happy once I have this!) Possession inevitably leads to disappointment. (I was happier when I was dreaming about it.) Disappointment leads to disdain. (This didn’t make me happy so it must be bad.) Disdain leads to self-hatred. (You thought that would make you happy? You fool!)
I have to believe that I am not the only person who lives this cycle out unendingly; I also have to believe that I am not the only person who wants this cycle to end.
I don’t just want to be happy. I want to be content.
Due to factors both within and beyond our control, my little family of four scalawag adventurers lives in a small fourth floor apartment.
My indulgent husband and I moved into this apartment in 2012 after the building, which is on the historic building registry, was renovated. We had long been intrigued by the building and when the apartments were complete, we asked to visit. Obviously, I fell in love with the view and after a series of pretty incredible miracles, we were residents of a historic landmark.
At the time, having children was the last thing on our minds. We took our time laying out the apartment, picking out our furniture. When we first moved in, I was pretty darn proud of the place we lived. It was mostly Salvation Army and Ikea chic, but it was unique, it was home and I loved it. The apartment was perfect for two people and our stuff.
But hah! Life had a wrench the size of a first baby boy and all the stuff that came along with him, planned for 2015, and a second wrench the size of another baby boy and his stuff in 2017.
How do four people fit in this same, perfectly calibrated space with all of their stuff?
Easy answer? They don’t.
I have always admired my mother-in-law for her organization. In her home, which, is admittedly spacious, each item has a designated place to live. She doesn’t have to wrestle with the toaster to get to the spice rack or move a box of toys to get to her shoes.
Even before I had babies I admired her for this, but now I am in awe and have a near-constant dissatisfaction in my heart because I have to move all of our plastic storage containers to get to the rice cooker.
There are two options: 1. Move into a new apartment or 2. Get rid of stuff so that we all can fit (comfortably) in this apartment.
I have chosen the second option. I struggle to imagine what this is going to look like or how I will know when I have achieved it, but watch this space!
When I was growing up, it seems like we had an inordinate number of storms that would knock the power out on our street. I was lucky to have an older sister who remained nonplussed at something that I would have found a little scary without her.
Without fail, my mother would say to us, as she would go about collecting flashlights and lighting candles, “Look girls! Now we are just like Laura Ingalls!”
Admittedly, Little House on the Prairie was a hit in our home. Maybe it was the cute little calico dresses or Nellie Olsen’s perfectly coiled curls that were so attractive to us. (I have so much more to say about life lessons learned from Little House but I am going muzzle myself for the moment…)
But what I think, truly, that was so attractive about that life was just how contented the Ingalls family seemed. Not just with their little house, but with their family relationships, with their lot in life, simple as it was. Yes, Hollywood. Also: life goals.
There was a sense of wonderment which took hold, if even for only a few minutes, as I considered what it would look and feel like to live differently.
What was fun for an hour on a stormy night was not how I wanted to live my life. However, whether to humor Mother, or because there was a genuine excitement about stepping outside of our usual routine and way of life, my sister and I would play along.
As I have grown up, that sense of wonderment has become a bit of an undercurrent. I don’t really want to live without electricity or without a car. But…what if?
When my husband and I met in 1997, neither of us had a television. We have been married since 1999 and never did get one. We have managed thus far to raise two little boys without one. That one unintentional decision set us on a path to intentionally do things a little bit differently than other people.
We don’t live just like Laura Ingalls, but I am constantly looking for ways to live more simply and with greater satisfaction.
This blog is going to follow my journey towards contentment.