Less Is Less

I find the tiny house movement fascinating. These inventive homes of just a few hundred square feet—sometimes only 100!—present charm, simplicity, and affordability. That said, I would not last long trying to live in one. There is definite appeal to the monastic like idea of ditching all the junk possessions you need a larger home to accommodate or for which you pay rent at your local storage facility. I struggle with questions about which of my possessions do I really need and how many more material items need really come into my home/life. My home's size provides helpful motivation for me to question my storage limits. When faced with the semi-hypothetical question of larger home or less (or limited) stuff, I go with less stuff, though I keep finding plenty of things I would like to own, some of which makes it through the front door.

Image from New York Times

Houses in the United States keep getting bigger. My house, built in 2005, offers about 1800 square feet, a little more than than the average square footage of a house built in 1980. By 2013 the average new house in this country comes in at about 2600 square feet, or 40% more house than I have (even as family size has been shrinking). Given the opportunity I do not believe I would have a larger house; well, not much bigger.

When I went house hunting and found my current home ten years ago, I had a few specifics for the realtor of things I wanted: 1) close to work, 2) a garage (there's a tradition on both sides of my family about respect for your vehicle; also, I hate getting into a cold car), 3) a bath attached to my room (because that's just nice to have), and 4) another bath and couple of bedrooms (for a guest room and office). I also had a lost of things I did not want: 1) a dining room and a breakfast nook, which I knew would be another room to furnish with a table I would casually pile things on, 2) a living room and a den, I was single and didn't want the extra room to furnish and to accentuate my alone-ness, and 3) if possible, no (or limited) hallways that would just add to the feeling of rattling around in an otherwise empty house. I lucked out and got everything I wanted and nothing I didn't.

That was then. Today I have a partner, a baby who will one day be adult size, two dogs, and cat. I hardly worry about feeling alone in my home. I also have about all the space I want. This is not slam against people with large(r) homes. I enjoyed the houses I lived in before going off to college (3,000 and 2,400 sq. ft., respectively), but the life that went along with those houses doesn't work for me now. Part of that comes from the fact that we have one, still-small child. Also, I remember the extra rooms in the houses I grew up in, rooms with the word "formal" attached (e.g., formal dining room) that translated to "show room" or "you-kids-get-out-of-there room." Those rooms of furniture too nice for me to use without an annual holiday as permission were an important part of a performance to keep up with the Joneses. If you have those other rooms and use the them all the time (or never, for that matter), I am not talking about you; I am talking about me. For me, a house without show rooms keeps me from having to stress about the show: less room is less stress.

Glennon Doyle Melton penned a great piece about appreciating your home for the life lived in it. I cannot agree with her more. Though I cannot go the way of the tiny house movement, I like that my partner, daughter and I are always semi on top of each other, with a dog or two running between us. The connection feels right. Sometimes I retreat to the office space upstairs to really concentrate on work, but when I can I use a laptop on the couch amidst the hubbub. My partner has her reading corner (i.e., a chair and a lamp) in our bedroom where she sneaks off to sometimes for a little respite. In the future our daughter will need time alone for homework or figuring out who she is. Even still, I like the communal default of our house; unless you're in a bedroom or bathroom, you're pretty much in the same room with everyone else: less places is less separation.

Lest you think me on my high horse, with a magic wand I could find some changes to make to the house. A foot more of counter space on both sides of my kitchen and a few more cupboards would be nice. Our biggest limitation is the eating area (you remember, the solitary eating space I insisted upon). Our dining table sits between the entrance/exit to the kitchen and a wall—not really a room, more of a space. When just us three eat, or even a couple of dinner guests, the table works really well with a long side pushed up against the wall with windows. Holidays are a different story: the table has to come away from the wall, which means everybody can get into their chairs, but they are pretty much locked unto their seats unless somebody else gets up. The holiday arrangement creates some gritting-through-my-smile moments when I have to ask two people to get up so I can maneuver around for a minute. As soon as I reflect on it though I always wash it over the same way, "It's just what family does."

The first holiday I hosted was an Easter luncheon of friends when I was in grad school. I had one of those experiences where you casually invite people who surprise you by agreeing to come. I freaked out: my then-table sat two! Boring story short, people ate with plates on their laps and had a good time (well, I did at least). It's just what family does.

I need to embrace less. I have learned my own mental health improves when I have what I need and not what I think I need by comparison. Letting go of the stress that comes with trying to "keep up" or make a show leads me closer to happiness. I have to keep learning this lesson. Would I like a larger eating area? Yes! A larger home? I guess not. We could afford a mortgage for a larger home, but we choose not to do so as our choice. For me—really, I'm just talking about me—keeping the home I have, which hardly qualifies as roughing it, keeps me a little saner. I can appreciate your bodacious media room setup without trying to figure out how to match it; there's no place for it. I can admire your huge kitchen and not want to replicate it at home; there's no space to expand. Seeing something "more" and embracing my "less" equals less of the negative energy I can create for myself. Less is less, and I need that.

Of Resolutions and Lists, or: How I'm Going to Build Up a Head of Steam in 2015

Let's see, it's halfway through the month of January, so I'm going to guess that about 75% of New Year's resolutions are now lost causes. Well, some of the stats aren't quite that dire; it just seems like it.

I have forgone resolutions. Most years I don't bother. Given my recent grousing that 2014 landed flat in the goals department it occurred to me that I should approach 2015 more proactively. Before going to sleep on New Year's day I made a list of things I wanted to achieve in the year. Exciting things like making the casserole cabinet more functional and getting that research article to an editor for review. Ah, lists.

I am of the opinion a problem with many resolutions is that they err toward the aspirational and not the practical. Dan Diamond and I are of one mind that a part of realizing those first day promises comes down to committing yourself to something concrete, doable, and measurable. "Finding myself" sounds nice except for the part that it lacks a clear sense of what "finding" oneself means and has set a pretty high and abstract bar that you may not know if you ever reach—I know when I have found the center of a Tootsie Pop, not sure when I have found myself.

If you can make a resolution like "eat better" or "be true to myself" work for you, then, well done, sailor. I cannot function like that: I need a list. Lists have the potential for great beauty: a clear description of what needs doing followed by the possibility of the indescribable bliss from scratching out completed items. That sweet arrangement of items tells me whether I accomplish anything or not.

Lists have played an important part in my professional successes and no less a part of what makes me no fun: I always need a plan or I get stuck. Some people's secret to success amounts to setting lofty goals with no plan and going at it pell mell. I don't know how they do it, but they make a monkey out of me. Of course, the lack of a plan will undo others.

There's the image JFK borrows from Frank O'Connor to take on aspirations by throwing your hat over a tall wall leaving you with no choice but to find a way to follow it. I find the whole picture he paints inspiring, and, yet, I see myself standing in front of a stone wall with my hat in my hand, pondering, no plan; I put the hat back on my head and slowly walk away. The wall just stood too tall.

Upside of my need for a clear plan, I do a decent job achieving many of my goals (though, certainly not all); downside, I end up with some pretty small dreams because if I don't know how to plan it, I nip that dream in the bud. Worse still, even some of my small goals languish (I'll mount that TV one day with the bracket I already purchased; just you wait!).

To make lists sites of pride and not a record of defeat means getting going. I think James Clear hits the nail on the head when he argues that productivity follows Newton's laws, productivity begets more productivity (i.e., objects in motion tend to stay in motion). When I approach my 2015 list I have been trying to start out with some smaller items that require less work (e.g., to put finances in order, set up a money market account at a bank with a good rate). The thrill of scratching an item of the list is a hit of a drug I want more of. The small accomplishments help me build that head of steam to want to try and execute the next item.

Here's a an example of two small things I got done just before the holidays that I had wanted to do for awhile, both of which have been incredibly useful in the short time since finishing them. Putting up these measuring cups near the cabinets with the flours and sugars has been super convenient, as has the measuring spoons on the inside of a cabinet door directly above where I keep all my spices (right next to the stove). Looking at them brings a small smile to my face, and it reminds me that I want to do more. I know, measuring tools in the kitchen, hardly the stuff of self reinvention, but that is not the point. The point is a sense of progress that builds the desire for more progress. When I feel a little beaten down, it might just be the small steps to help me feel like I can stand taller, possibly jump, and maybe one day soar.

So 2015 begins with a list. The items include personal and professional goals, some on par with the brilliance of hanging measuring cups, others of the scale it scares me just a little (but I scare easily). I have already made some progress on my list, so I use those check marks as motivation to make some more. It counts as movement in the right direction, and I am glad for it.

Who knows, maybe one day, with the experience and confidence of a few years' completed lists, I might have a grand aspiration and a list to back it up. Until then, I'm concentrating on my casserole cabinet.

Hello, 39

Turning 39 is terribly unoriginal; so many people have done it before you almost wonder why you bother, but, then again, since the alternative seems rather unattractive at the moment I suppose one just carries on. By naming this blog 39something, my dear reader (and I am expecting about one), I also mean to say that I would also like to tarry here a while. 39 seems the right age. There's nothing wrong with 40 (plus), and I do intend to see those numbers go clicking by, but 39 has a nice ring to it; if nothing else,I have always thought of 39 as my lucky number. Maybe I'll annoyingly go on calling myself "39 something" for years.

Thinking of age, it seems that many of us have a "difficult" year when we are still fairly young, that year you just don't like your age at a time when it makes even less sense than usual to be unhappy about your number of trips around the sun. For me that was 20—as I said, it makes no sense. As a child, 20 always seemed to me like adulthood. At eight I thought 20 is when you get married and start your family (that's about all I thought adulthood was worth). At 19-going-on-20 I could see neither of those things were drawing very near at all; in fact, domestic life as I imagined it seemed to be fading. Thus, my twentieth year I denied my age all 365 days of it. I won't go on about all the obvious reasons my 20-year pessimism was laughable, but I will say that coming up on a threshold year, when the odometer seems close to rolling over two digits at once, for some of us provokes a little introspection and even some prospection. There I sit.

My thirty seventh year did all right by me. I had a loving partner whom I love—and like, thank you; I had the type of professorship I had dreamed of finding when I was in graduate school for years; I had a house I found both comfortable and affordable; my employer granted me a sabbatical for the Spring term to finally work on that book I had been ruminating about for three years; and, the pièce de résistance, we were expecting our first child that July. The year turned out lovely, indeed. My daughter was born healthy and happy; my partner came through pregnancy unscathed, also; on sabbatical I did lots of little things that were a good base to spring from; and I was on 65% leave in the Fall term to be home with my baby, which was an actual dream come true (19-going-on-20 me, it's going to be great for you!). Those months at home with my daughter were delightful, if sometimes exhausting, and the 35% work commitment gave me the needed sanity and professional value I needed. At the dawn of 38, we had the most amazing crepes and bid 37 adieu.

It seems unnecessary to prattle on about 38, but it should be forgotten; my professional goals were lost to others' goals and I felt myself losing the personal sense of direction I needed. Throughout the year, however, I had—and continue to enjoy—a loving partner, healthy child, warm home, stable job, full refrigerator, solid bank account, and well body; really, all the rest is just the monkeys in my head.

When I stop and think about it, I am living the life I want to live. The details sometimes get sort of out of place: the weeds in the side yard I ignored for a solid year (not exaggerating), the reports I never seem to submit on time, or the stress that my daughter passes on most offerings of green vegetables. In the moment they all seem terribly important to me, but the big picture is just fine—no, not "fine," "very good." The more I can remember that the less I get upset, not that I remember it that often.

In my early thirties I learned a lesson that applies to how I play the game, Monopoly: I cannot worry about how much money you have but rather how much money I have. That means to make sure I am OK financially (and all other ways) without worrying about how you and I compare. In the last couple of years I have slowly accepted that if a friend thinks less of me after seeing what a mess my dining table is, piled with mail and random junk, then perhaps our friendship is not so hot and I should care less about your opinion. I think now is the time I learn to turn that last lesson on myself, to worry less about the details when the big picture is so good.

This is not to say I am giving up on my visions for what I want to accomplish. I have some thoughts, hopes, goals, and plans for this year. It will be interesting, depressing, or fun to see how all that pans out, but if I can remember how much is right, then it will be OK.

Right?

Maybe?

We'll see.

So then, hello, 39! Let's make it a good year.