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We’re Addicted To Square Footage

By Frugaling 11 Comments

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Minimalism in space

I live in a 900-square-foot, two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment. Each bedroom has a full bathroom, a closet, and area for a desk. The kitchen is relatively large with a dishwasher, stove and oven, large sink, washer and dryer, and full refrigerator. A living room hosts a couch, chair, table, and television. The ceilings are expansive and tall; not palatial, but more than necessary. Maybe it’s just my “phase of life,” but this space feels like more than enough. What more could I need?

At 27 years old, I make enough to live. My salary is just over $20,000 each year. I can’t really save much considering the costs of my education and ancillary costs, but I’m happy with what I have. There’s room for improvement, but as I look at my apartment and stuff, I can’t help but feel embarrassed by the relative opulence. Most of the world doesn’t have it this good. I have everything I need right now.

If I were married, the apartment would actually feel even larger, too. Currently, my roommate’s stuff occupies a solid half of the apartment. If it was just my partner and I, we would share the same space, and only need one bedroom. The other room could become an office, dayroom — whatever! Heck, it could be a walk-in closet for all I care!

Over 900 square feet, I would begin to feel the creep of growth — the push to fill space whenever emptiness is present. Whether it’s my philosophical values of frugality or minimalism or a desire to minimize my carbon impact, I’d hesitate to grow beyond these walls. They wouldn’t be necessary.

However, it’s important to consider whether my tendency toward extremism is getting the best of me. Could there be a time in life when 900 square feet might not be enough? Potentially. If I had a larger family or needed to make room for my parents or some other unique situation arose, I could see the need. But it would be temporary to expand to the need of others, not constant space for the rest of my life. I’d want to downsize again.

Last week, I was reading an article in The New York Times about couples who had moved decades ago into the suburbs surrounding New York City. Some had moved into large bungalows and McMansions to raise families, enjoy the slower life, and have more room to grow.

One family raised three children in a 2,400-square-foot home. For those struggling with math like me, that’d be 5 people — 3 more than my roommate and I. With about 500 square feet per resident, the house could probably be quite a comfortable location. When accounting for the size of the home, it doesn’t include off-site storage, yards, and/or storage sheds that can be added later.

Now, later in life and three adult children, this family is looking to downsize and move back to the city, culture, and bustle of Manhattan. Who can blame them, too? New York City is fun — there’s always something to do, eat, and see. But as that couple looked for locations, they came up empty. They said all they could find were “depressing,” “very small” places at 900 square feet.

My jaw dropped at the statement. I was shocked! Here I’ve been living in apartments of 900 or less square feet for about 4 years; yet, this couple was struggling to move into such a space. What was I missing?!

Here’s what I suspect:

  1. People develop and find a comfort in abundance. To downsize may be a reflection of lost class and status.
  2. There’s a fear of giving up and away. Some material goods might not keep us alive, but are still hard to part with.
  3. Despite a “couple’s” desire to downsize, there might be discrepancies. Making a move up, down, or laterally isn’t always mutually agreed upon in the relationship. Those contrasting aspects can prevent people from committing to a serious downsize.
  4. We reach an adaptational level, which sets a new normal. Anything less just doesn’t feel “right.”
  5. Surrounded by a culture of mass and materialism, it’s hard to buck that trend and go small.

The reality is smaller spaces are freeing for people young and old. Not having lots of material goods and space means you can vacation when you want, dig into more expensive cultures, and enjoy a break from endless chores. And more importantly, plenty of normal, average, everyday people live in small spaces with great efficiency (Just look at this couple who lives in a beautiful, 420-square-foot apartment).

For years, magazines, newspapers, and all other forms of media have stressed how wealthy people buy opulent homes. Tens of millions of dollars are spent to afford these palaces. From Bill Gates to Ellen DeGeneres, these homes capture our attention. Don’t we want to be successful just like them?

Rather than duplicate this display of status, we can choose another path. What if we looked for the smallest apartments or homes? What if we looked for less? What if we looked for tiny, modular apartments that move and shift to our needs? What if we gave up our cultural addiction to more stuff in favor the culture out there?

Filed Under: Minimalism Tagged With: apartments, homes, Materialism, Minimalism, real estate, Space, square foot, square footage, Stuff, Success

Why Trying To Be Happy Makes You Sad

By Frugaling 11 Comments

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Happiness of children
Photo: Geraint Rowland/Flickr

“Ask yourself whether you are happy, and you cease to be so.”
–John Stuart Mill

“Hose off before you come in the house!”

My brother stood there, covered head to toe in mud, shirtless and wearing an awesome grin. For the last few hours, we had destroyed my parents’ manicured backyard. With sticks and odd tools (we really needed a shovel), we carved into the grass and dirt until we had a small, 12-foot long canal of sorts. Then, we poured unknown quantities of water down our makeshift river. It was the perfect project for an unscheduled summer day.

When I think back to this moment, it’s easy to be nostalgic. Here, my brother and I worked tirelessly on a project without meaning or reason — just childhood fun. We both smiled back and forth, and were filthy by the end of it. It was a freedom that children seem to have that adults relinquish.

But happiness was an elusive quality back then. I know that during my childhood and adolescence, I felt sad much of the time. There were various factors influencing my sadness, but I know that internally something was off, too. I was desperate to feel “normal.” I was desperate for others to like me. Really, I was desperate to feel happy. Yet, I couldn’t be more miserable.

The media message of happiness

In the worst of moods, hardest times, and deepest depressions, all I wanted was happiness. It’s frequently been the mantra coursing through me.

The world around us says we deserve to be happy. Growing up, I had the unfortunate inclination and timing to enjoy shows like FOX’s The O.C. and MTV’s Laguna Beach. They each flaunted an inconceivable wealth and privilege.

They seemed happy, even in their dramas. It was an endless party for them, and I wanted in. The mundane aspects of life didn’t exist in these shows. Abnormally long bathroom routines, cooking breakfast, writing for hours, and listening to a lecturer drone on weren’t the focus of these “teenagers’” lives. No, the excitement was in the sex, fashion, and material wealth.

These shows helped craft a warped sense of drive towards income and status. Unfortunately, each step towards those goals made me more miserable. Happiness was eluding me.

Suppression of thoughts only causes more

Stop thinking about polar bears.
Stop thinking about polar bears.
Stop thinking about polar bears.

Have you stopped thinking about polar bears?

Oftentimes, to find happiness, people attempt to suppress thoughts/feelings of sadness. For short periods, individuals are able to say, “I’m not going to let myself feel sad.” And it sort of works. We can temporarily tell ourselves not to be sad. It’s just that over time we suffer from this forced suppression and rejection of feelings.

Researchers have consistently found that thought suppression doesn’t work longer term. What happens is that people frequently endorse an ironic “rebound effect” in feelings of sadness and are less capable at suppression later on. In other words, by forcing our natural emotions down and rejecting them, we do more harm than good.

“I’m just trying to be happy”

The consequences of our culture messages and thought suppression may be grave for both your happiness and budget. Oftentimes, people try to spend their way to happiness. Popular media spoon feed us a message that we deserve to feel this way, and that it is accessible through purchases.

When we can’t buy our way to happiness because our budgets are too tight, we feel sadness and unease. When we can buy material goods that are supposed to provide us lasting happiness (at least, that’s what the commercials suggest), we often continue to feel sadness and unease.

The traditional methods of “trying” to find happiness seem stale. There’s something wretched and moldy and overgrown. We’ve let corporate messages persuade us into thinking that Lexuses will make us better people, and in turn — finally — happy. We’ve let Coca-Cola re-brand itself repeatedly — most recently taking on the Internet and cleaning it up. We’ve let alcohol and tobacco companies objectify women to sell us drug-addled euphoria.

And yet, we’re still not happy.

Going with the emotional flow

I propose we smash these corporate-defined messages of success, achievement, and happiness. They’re not working for you, are they? Do their messages of pre-scripted happiness help? Do you watch beautiful people enjoy expensive goods and feel better about yourself?

If the solution was in our media, thought suppression, and material goods, we’d be the happiest people on Earth. Unfortunately, these methods don’t make us happier and they goad us into spending more money. There must be a better way.

As someone with a psychological background and soon to become a counseling psychologist, I hesitate to “prescribe” any one solution. We all come from different backgrounds, environments, and experiences. One size does not fit all, but I do have some propositions.

1. Change the end goal

Frequently, the reasons for saving, making, and spending money are aimed at satisfaction and happiness. It sort of sounds like, “I’ll be happy when I’ve earned a million dollars.” In framing our futures in this light, we’ve locked up an emotion for a later date. Until certain levels of wealth and material worth are achieved, people with these goals and ideals will experience emptiness.

It requires a certain level of mental flexibility, but if we can change the end goal, there’s hope for a better moment-to-moment life. Society says we should always be happy, but what will you say? Change the end goal to something like mental wellness and a fuller life may follow.

2. Learn to accept all emotions

As a counselor, I understand that many people grow up hearing these messages: “Stop crying,” “Cheer up,” and “It’ll be better next time.” Each of these negates the very real feelings beyond happiness that people might be feeling. They lay the groundwork for a life that will soon be happy — if only you’d stop being “weak.”

Life is not good or bad — happy or sad. When it’s boring or sad, we tend to spend more for excitement and happiness. It’s a self-medicated response that’s learned through the mass consumption of a culture that proselytizes this value.

Life is good and bad. There are swings of emotional highs and lows, and sometimes it’s boring and dull. That’s the real normal. If we can accept and think, “I’m sad right now, and that’s okay. At some point I’ll be happy again, too,” we’ll be better able to save.

3. Question anything that purports to provide long-term happiness

Hershey’s candy bars and BMW M5s can make us feel better. Likely, most of us have felt the joy of buying a treat. There’s this immediate headrush of excitement — from yum to zoom. But however much we might want it to stick around, it fades away.

Buying stuff is a short-term solution to long-term emotions. Feeling dull or down? Take a hit and buy something. Your immediate, short-term response will be happiness.

Instead, stay with it, don’t immediately try to “fix” your feelings. No purchase will ever solidify and halt emotional change forever.

Let’s define a new normal, where we accept our own and each other’s emotions — whatever they may be. Let’s recognize that no emotion is permanent, and that buying stuff should never be the long-term fix. Let’s learn to embrace the thoughts that scare us, because they’re only that — thoughts.

Filed Under: Minimalism, Social Justice Tagged With: buying, feelings, goals, Happiness, Happy, Materialism, Minimalism, Purchases, sad, sadness, saving money, Stuff, thought suppression

What’s Your Most Prized Possession?

By Frugaling 29 Comments

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Colorado State University Oval

Hello, roomie!

The windows were open, and I could smell the grass outside. It was green and sunny — not a cloud in the sky. A prototypical Colorado day followed me around, as I moved what little I owned into a small cubby, under a lofted mattress, and into a petite wooden desk.

It was move-in day for college — fall 2007.

I rolled out a single-bed mattress sheet, chintzy comforter, and single pillow cover. The mattress was an ocean blue, and perpetually felt uncomfortable. But it was my new home.

Somewhere in this process, I learned to live with less. I didn’t call it minimalism back then. It didn’t feel like minimalism.

Forced space? Mandated minimalism

I wasn’t given the option to live any other way in college. My closet only accepted a few shirts, shoes, pants, etc. My bedroom didn’t allow for larger mattresses. And my desk only had room for the basic necessities: pens, paper, and laptop.

After my first year of college, I moved into another residence hall to become an “RA” or resident assistant. I loved my position. It was and still is my favorite job. But even then, with a little more room, I was forced to stay minimal.

Now, minimalism doesn’t always mean being frugal. Despite my enclosures, I cycled through lots of things. There was a $1200 road bike (kept outside and then sold), a mini fridge (under the bed and then sold), electronics (a desktop computer and then sold), and more. For everything I bought, I sold something else — both to afford the new item and make space.

I was hardly frugal. I was mad with the need to consume away my problems, concerns, and stresses of school. No matter how much I purchased, the feelings remained.

Where I failed budgetarily, I seemed to succeed in minimalism. My room was still neat and tidy, and presentable to residents and their parents. I didn’t have a need for lots of stuff — nor could I put it anywhere.

While I wasn’t ready to change my spending habits until years later, an inclination towards minimalism was cemented. All it took was a forced restriction from many years of residence hall rooms to prevent the purchase of more than I needed. I developed an affinity for a clean, organized room. I didn’t need or want to have tons of things.

The losses hurt immensely

Another component pushed me towards minimalism: loss. In college I was exposed directly and indirectly to losses in life. Three of my grandparents passed away, three people died by suicide on campus that I knew, and I went through some pretty nasty breakups.

These losses encouraged me to look beyond the petty grievances and consumer comforts of society. What was important was the life of those around me, and spending time with those I cared about. Again, things weren’t as important as people.

During this period of tragedy, I realized how loss of material possessions didn’t matter. Suddenly, I stopped worrying about people stealing my stuff, things failing, and/or leaving my home unattended. Renters insurance seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. I had nothing “priceless.”

What’s going to fit in the trunk?

After college and the losses, I moved for graduate school. Again, it was a time of forced minimalism. I could only take what would fit in my Honda Civic coupe. And there was an added caveat, as my brother would be occupying the passenger seat.

To lighten the load, I listed items on Craigslist and asked friends if they needed odds and ends. Then, my brother and I filled the car with deconstructed IKEA furniture, clothing, and other household items. Our seats were forced upright — unable to recline — by the tightly packed vehicle.

Everything I owned fit into one tiny little car. It felt freeing, but frankly, all I could think about was the truly precious cargo: my brother. If everything else disappeared, let it not be him. That’s all that mattered/matters.

What really matters in life is…

I never sought to be a minimalist in my younger years, it found me. When I entered a small space and shared it with a roommate, I was forced to have less. When I lost loved ones, I was forced to reflect on what was most important. When my brother helped me move, I pictured what I would really need.

Stuff never came first.

Recently, I was grabbing a drink with someone and this question came up: “What would you grab if your apartment/house were on fire (excluding pets and humans)?”

I thought briefly about this question and almost cried. I couldn’t come up with anything. Nothing mattered beyond the human and pet connections in my life. Nothing. I feared the loss of… nothing.

Filed Under: Minimalism Tagged With: apartment, Consumer, family, Frugal, home, Minimalism, minimalist, Space, Stuff

You Know What Would Be Nice?

By Frugaling 6 Comments

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Ikea Store Nice!
I like Ikea a lot, but this place makes me think, “You know what would be nice?” Photo: Håkan Dahlström/Flickr

A dendritic response arcs across my brain, as a firing of emotional and processing centers make me think, “You know what would be nice?” It’s the beginning of a dangerous game for me; at times, that question begets rampant spending.

“You know what would be nice” is a phrase that envisions the bigger picture, better future, and more attractive self. It encapsulates my desire for nicer clothes, electronics, furniture, etc. I can see and feel how an iPhone 6 might complete my left pant pocket. The svelte thickness and aluminum texture captivate me in these moments.

“You know what would be nice” is the reason Ikea, Target, and other big-box retailers exist. They perfected the art of the ensemble. It wasn’t enough to get/have a couch; now, you needed the accoutrements. They suggest “what would be nice” and show you the pairing. Their catalogs and stores are expertly laid out to exemplify an orgiastic group of accessories.

A small rug could complement the dining room. That watch would make this outfit POP. This lamp shade would make my room cozier. This shirt would be great for a night out.

“You know what would be nice” is the dream hypothetical that only lives in marketers’ models. Realizing this is one of the most painful lessons in consumerism. No matter how many “nice” things I own, the question will continue to putz around my little mind — craving me to cave and spend.

I’m not sure when I started saying this phrase. It’s led to horrible spending habits at certain times in my life. And I’ve heard others, mouths agape, vomit this treacherous line, too. The reality and solution is far simpler.

All we need to do is change the desired answer — a détournement to the prescribed answer. “You know what would be nice?” To be content with who I am today, the things around me, and the life I lead. “You know what would be nice?” To quiet the racing mind that suggests I need anything consumeristic to complete me. “You know what would be nice?” To make purchases out of necessity and enjoyment, rather than compulsion and marketing pressure.

Filed Under: Save Money Tagged With: buying, Consumerism, Consumption, Ikea, money, Save, stores, Stuff, Target

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