An acquaintance came to my home for the first time and wandered around for two minutes declaring that I had nice things. Thankfully, my mother taught me that I should always accept a backhanded compliment as a compliment nonetheless. Which is exactly what I did because that is not what he meant and I wasn’t fooled. My home was tasteful and minimalist for sure but as sparse as a parsonage it was not. None of this mattered because I divorced myself of all logic and reason and joined the herd and spent the next decade in a constant (and I do mean uninterrupted) state of acquisition. At my peak, I think my acquaintance would have blushed in embarrassment for me. The wheels came off this gorging of mine when I decided, for a minute, that I would relocate to South Dakota (population SD = 600,000 & my home city 600,000) and realized I simply could not.
The process of purge-so-your-home-sells-for-more-money-and-I-can-buy-more-stuff had begun and had gathered strength making it unstoppable. Sixty-five percent of my gorgeous possessions which at one time I would simply have perished if I didn’t own them were carted off to storage and I wasn’t allowed to go down there to visit my beautiful, little, yummy, needful things. How did I survive you might wonder? Remarkably well, thank you. .
Now my home is governed by my needs and those of my friends and family; no longer is it ruled by inanimate object d’ art. People breathe comfortably in my home, not nervously wondering if it would be their last. I have a dining room once again and not a room set to display items in awe-inspiring fashion. People no longer run from my home citing sensory overload as the immediate medical cause and they don’t view time in my place as a brief stay in the crown jewel of the Wisconsin penal system. Now “you have nice things” is meaningful because they can actually focus on something in my condo.