A bag, a backpack, and a box were clustered on my floor, each brimming with clothes. I took inventory: seven dresses, three shirts, seven sweaters, a skirt, two swimsuits, a jumpsuit, two scarves, three bags, one pair of pants, one pair of shorts, and five pieces of jewelry. This was round one.
That’s how I’ve decided to become a minimalist: in rounds. These clothes—which I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to sell online—will go to Goodwill. Then, when I’ve had a couple months to gauge what I’m still not wearing, I’ll fill the bags again.
My fascination with minimalism has consumed an embarrassing amount of time over the past month. I’ve listened to podcasts and combed through my closet and read about different methods and purged my closet again. I recognize that, for many, talking about 
minimalism seems inherently pretentious. I considered this point while drafting this post and reflected on the content I’ve been consuming. The people who have created media platforms based on their experience with minimalism don’t, surprisingly, look down on the rest of America. No one I’ve read or listened to has focused at length on the cons of non-minimalist living; they instead talk about their often humorous journeys that led to the change. They genuinely want to share the details of a choice they made in hopes of bringing peace to another person’s life. I want to non-judgmentally share what drew me to making a similar choice.
I suppose Round One of minimalism actually occurred over a year ago when I moved from Charlotte to Atlanta. I donated about one fifth of my clothing, and then did the same when I moved again in December. I’ve been parsing away at my remaining collection since.
The idea of minimalism—though I didn’t call it that—first struck me during senior year of high school, when my psychology class watched a video featuring an artist named Andrea Zittel. Zittel’s work straddles the line between art and design; most of what she creates are living structures and complex items that serve a practical function. She once worked as a chicken breeder and was fascinated by how the animal 
had everything it needed (except freedom, I’m compelled to add) in its cage, or “breeding unit.” She took the idea to extremes and began to create foldable homes, where every item and section had multiple functions. She crochets one piece of clothing for each season. Her kitchen utensils are built around three bowls that stack into one another, which serve as both cups and dishes. Her bathroom contains three cabinets, labeled “addition” (products she adds to her skin), subtraction (shampoo, cleanser, anything used to remove matter), and “tools and implements” (hairbrush, razors). This extreme utilitarian organization soothed and intrigued me, perhaps because it was a stark contrast to my messy ways. While Zittel’s work is a study of the “social construct of human need” as opposed to minimalism, the two 
appear to be inextricably linked.
Minimalism wasn’t a fad then the way it is now. I had no clue how to implement such rigid peace in my teenage, parentally-monitored existence. When I moved to college, I brought everything I “needed,” which encompassed virtually all I owned. I repeated the process each time I moved to and from school. It wasn’t until after college that I realized I wore about three fourths of my clothes, if that. When I moved in with Robby, we had double the stuff in a tiny apartment. I wanted to change.
So, armed with endless (and fairly new) online content on the topic of minimalism, I started scraping at the edges of my belongings. I wasn’t aiming to become a minimalist, per se. I wanted to be a person with less things who produced a smaller amount of trash. I used minimalism as a rough template to achieve that goal.
I’ve taken steps on the trash front. Over the past three years, I’ve started making my own shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant. I’ve switched to a menstrual cup. I’ve opted for sustainably crafted bars of soap and used Tupperware instead of plastic bags. Not only have I loved not buying these products (the toiletries involve just a couple of household ingredients, and their absence has had a genuine effect on my grocery bill), but I’ve begun to conceptualize exactly how much plastic I’m no longer throwing out. I’ve wanted to expand this cleaner, waste-less living to other areas of my life, and recognized
that reducing the amount of items I have would be a catalyst for greener living. However, I’ve never felt particularly compelled to follow through with the idea.
Now, I do. It could be in response to our upcoming move to Wilmington, NC, or it may be backlash to the amount of dog supplies we’ve accumulated. I told Robby that I was going to become a minimalist, and that I would only purge my things, not his. I forget whether he rolled his eyes or not; proclamations like this one are fairly regular.
“One request,” he said. “We keep our books.”
The last time we moved, I filled an entire Little Library with old poetry books and novels. I still had plenty left. When I asked Robby if I could donate his calculus and economics textbooks, he shrugged off the suggestion and told me he’d rather sell them. I don’t think he will, though. He loves being around books and has fantasized about an in-home library.
“Sure, buddy,” I told him. “We’ll keep our books.”
The only other fundamentally spared items will be artwork. We have a tiny collection of original art—about five or six pieces—and a litany of posters and prints that we love. I’m not drawn to the aesthetics of minimalism: white walls, modern furniture, a single purple orchid on a table. I plan to have a strategically empty
floor space, but walls that are flooded with color.
This morning, I asked Robby what he thought about minimalism.
“I think it’s a trendy thing to do and I don’t really understand it,” he said. “Like, I think it’s great to try and leave less of an environmental impact and have fewer things. But ‘minimalist’ implies the least amount of things actually needed, and it doesn’t make sense to live like that.”
I think we have contrasting visions of minimalism’s end result. The foundation of my goal isn’t to cut out things I use, but to simply have one of each item. I don’t need four small purses, or eight sundresses, or three Braves shirts. I’ll keep my favorite of each. And if an item is somehow destroyed, I don’t mind investing in a new one. I’ll be saving money overall by only shopping when I need to replace something.
Robby loves efficiency, and I think the part of me that’s attracted to Andrea Zittel’s work is what initially drew me to him. I believe he’ll come around when I’m done bringing minimalism to life. I texted him after our conversation to point out that, if I donate the majority of my things, we won’t have as many boxes to move. He didn’t say anything, just gave a thumbs up.
