closet.

Our condo has a small room that a realtor would probably try to pass off as a third bedroom. (It’s not.) The previous tenants used it as a nursery for a newborn, which seemed to work well for them.
I, of course, turned it into a closet.

On the longest wall, I installed hanging rods, shelves, and hooks. A previously installed wall cabinet with sliding drawers stayed. In went my antique dresser and vanity set. Another wall showcased built-in shelving from floor to ceiling (perfect for shoes, I thought). But of course it wasn’t enough storage space. I added yet another floor-to-ceiling shoe rack, and a shelving unit to hold all of my handbags. Finally, I was “organized.” Or so I thought.

The process of minimizing has shined a harsh light on my overspending and mindless accumulation of items that serve little more than my vanity. My husband, with his usual clarity, took one look at the shoe/handbag wall(s) and said, “Well, it’s pretty obvious where you need to minimize.”

And so I did. Over the course of five long, sweaty hours last weekend, I faced my demons. (Turns out they are named Chanel and Manolo.) Each item was held up for inspection, and then added to a corresponding pile: throw away, donate, give to a friend, consign locally, consign nationally, or keep. By the time the sun set, I had removed 10 bags full of clothes/handbags/shoes/jewelry from my closet, and I was smugly self-satisfied.

Then my husband came home.

I proudly escorted him into the closet, expecting shock and awe. Instead, it went something like this...

Him: Um, what did you get rid of?

Me: What do you mean? I got rid of 10 bags!

Him: 10 bags of what? 

Me: I had 70 pairs of shoes! Now I only have 40!

Him: YOU HAD 70 PAIRS OF SHOES?!?!

And so, I did the only thing I could think to do. I sulked. I sulked for a while. And then I got serious about going back in there and making deeper, more painful cuts. I let go of more shoes, and forced myself to choose only what would fit on the built-in shelves. Everything else, no matter how beautiful, got put into bags for consignment. Out went the extra shoe rack, since it was now obsolete. I made a call to an international luxury dealer and got a quote for some pristine vintage handbags that I truly love, but never use.

It wasn’t easy. Acquiring these items meant something to me at one point in my life. They meant that I had arrived...to adulthood, to the bourgeoisie, to the shiny city-girl life that once fueled my small town teenage fantasies. They were my trusted armor for a world of high pressure business meetings and glittering soirees in some of the grandest hotels and homes in the country. They were part of my identity, and I loved them fiercely.

And now, as I sit on a bare wooden floor, my old dreams bagged up and ready to be set free, I can’t help but feel a little sad for the girl who once thought she needed all of this. We are so much more than what we buy. We are so much more than what we own.

We are so much more and need so much less.