Minimalism Is Just Wealth Disguised As Taste.
I forgot I had a garage for six months. People forget their anniversaries or where they parked at Whole Foods. I forgot an entire architectural appendage attached to the house. Marie Kondo would need smelling salts and a defibrillator if she saw how I live; everything I own is on display like a museum of mediocrity: free charge of admission.
People think I'm messy, which is like calling the ocean deep. I'll only see a dust bunny after it has evolved from lint to livestock. Meanwhile, I know exactly where the half-eaten Skor bar is beside the toaster from Friday’s experimental peanut butter toast festivities. Priorities aren't my problem; visibility is my religion.
I leave everything out, spread across surfaces like evidence at a crime scene. Snacks? Displayed on a table. This isn't negligence it's survival. Drawers are where good intentions go to die. I once put away a brand-new juicer and rediscovered it three years later, still in its box, after I'd already bought another one.
Capitalism's greatest ally is me with too many cabinets.
My house features what anthropologists might call "ritual altars" but what my ex-husband called "did you lose this?" There's the jewelry shrine, where necklaces coil like snakey knot threats; the book mountain, threatening avalanche with one wrong move; and the skincare sanctuary, bottles arranged by nothing. Sometimes a child's tooth sits in a crystal dish because the Tooth Fairy, like proper healthcare for women, is a pleasant fiction we maintain.
Yes, a random tooth. If teeth were currency, I'd be bankrupt. I've lost track of sixty baby teeth over the years, probably ground into the carpet like calcium confetti. Little boxes sometimes contain teeth, sometimes Chinese coins, and occasionally mysterious keys that undoubtedly unlock important things I've also forgotten exist. One key is definitely for my friend’s place in Venice.
But, I did discover something.