Trimmings and Trappings
Since the day I turned 18, I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo. I’ve looked through numerous photos and designs, scoured the far reaches of my mind and memory to think what is the most meaningful symbol for me. And yet still my skin is bare. I approach consumption with a similar degree of purpose and contemplation.
I’m always on a mission to find the most perfectly suited, most well-made, most aesthetically appealing thing, be it a dish towel, a dinner plate, a raincoat, or a pillow. I do endless amounts of research into said thing and sometimes only get around to buying it years after I began thinking about it. Which is not to say that I don’t have crappy things—I definitely do—but most of these crappy things I wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of in favor of something better. I also place a very high value on comfort. When given the choice between, say, a gorgeous pair of shoes that I couldn’t walk in for more than 20 minutes, and my beat-up, practically treadless Danskos, I’ll pick the latter 9 times out of 10.
I think this need to have the best and most comfort-giving thing comes partly from the fact that I have fibromyalgia. If you don’t know what that is, the short version is that it’s chronic physical hypersensitivity. My mom compares me to the Princess and the Pea. If it takes 20 mattresses to keep my back from hurting, fine, but I’d definitely prefer to have just one that can do it all. As a result, I often end up trying something and if it doesn’t live up to my standards, then it’s time to find something else. Enter my enemy and yours: clutter.
As much as I try to rid myself of the disappointing thing promptly upon finding a replacement, this doesn’t always happen. And given the frequency of moves from apartment to apartment (12 moves in the last 7 years). I have learned not to get rid of things that might serve me well somewhere else in the future. Carrying around enough lamps, curtains, tables, shelves and rugs to fit into any space well is not an easy, or light, task. Moving the stuff I have acquired is exactly the kind of nightmare which makes Tyson cringe and want to live out of his car.
When I moved out to California in 2007, I had to take stock of a lot of my accumulation. I spent weeks throwing out photos that I didn’t like, getting rid of appliances and furniture, going through bags and bags of clothes and household items that I just didn’t use and donating them. It is a maddening process. Ultimately I whittled it down enough to fit into my car and a small U-Haul trailer. When I got out to Cali, I found that even the furniture I thought I would use in a 270-square-foot apartment had to go up on Craigslist—one small desk was sold in favor of a teeny rolling model. My coffee table crowded the entire living area and now sits on the porch of the trailer until I figure out what to do with it. My small wicker settee was sold off along with banana-leaf chairs to make room for a teeny gray sleeper loveseat.
For me, downsizing is a continous battle. I am addicted to coats and purses (one such coat above), and I worry about how I will possibly find a way to share a 2×5 closet with Tyson. Once I finish grad school in June, I expect to spend my remaining two months in my little Santa Cruz apartment trimming the fat with the help of eBay and Craigslist. Tyson calls me his “good little consumer” and I have to admit that I do feel a certain patriotic duty to stimulate the economy—but I try to remind myself that there’s only so much one woman can do.
Amanda is a photographer and grad student living in Santa Cruz, California. She is working on a photographic documentary of the Small House Movement in addition to working on retrofitting a little house with her partner Tyson. Photos from both projects can be viewed at http://greenaerie.blogspot.com; you can view her other photography at www.aliasgrace.com.
