Minimalism, the poor person way.

If there is one thing I hate in this world, it’s excessive wealth. I mean, not for me. I’d love to have an excess of almost anything, but especially wealth. Or cheese. I really like cheese.

But in other people, having too much money is a fairly despicable quality. Like eating a hamburger while staring directly into the eyes of a starving child — that kind of despicable. There is a reason why, when revolution came, aristocrats were beheaded and not just sent on their merry way with a firm spanking and a saucy wink. Having too much of anything makes you look like a bit of a cunt, is what I’m saying.

I remember the first time I ever walked into a mansion, my initial thought was ‘why?’ Why do they need eleven chandeliers? Why is there a chandelier in the bathroom? Why is there a chandelier in every bathroom?

I thought that with a lot of money there must come a loss of perspective. So let me kindly give that perspective back. No one needs to put a chandelier in their fucking bathroom. In fact, with mould and the specs of faeces that fly around the room every time we flush, having a chandelier hanging above a toilet is almost certainly a liability.

But I’m not so sure anymore that it is about perspective, rather, it is simply that we want to have things. It might be the machinations of capitalist consumerism, a natural drive to hoard for the winter, or a biological imperative to prove that we are capable of providing for our offspring by placing chandeliers in all of our bathrooms (I can’t get over it). It is most likely all of the above.

What it isn’t, though, is necessary. We just don’t need very much these days to survive and be happy. Netflix and a beer is a good day for me. Or SBS on demand, in a pinch.

And study, after study, after study tells us that having a lot of stuff makes us less happy. Take that, Santa!

I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, because I’m very poor. I’m single, I’m a writer without hustle, and I pay bills with spit swears and lint from the bottom of my purse. I’ve never had much money to speak of, but right now I’m skint. I don’t believe in a higher power, but every time I tap my card at a petrol station I say a little prayer to sweet baby Jesus, the most adorable of gods, in the hopes that it will go through.

This is a choice (sort of) I made for myself to prioritise my career ambitions over a pay cheque. Don’t worry, I deeply, deeply regret it. I have day dreams about ordering off the mains on a menu. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to own a pair of heels that doesn’t squeak when I walk. I salivate over the ASOS homepage, and ASOS isn’t even that good.

Yet my poverty has already taught me a lot of useful things. Like how to wear the same outfit again and again… and again without feeling deep shame. It’s forced me to learn how to bleach and tone my own hair without it falling out, kind of. And it’s given me a new appreciation for dry shampoo, baby wipes, safety pins and staying in on Friday nights.

Best of all, it’s taught me how to let go of buying stuff. I’ve read a tonne of articles about minimalism, and the one thing they all have in common is that they list shit you have to buy in order to embrace the movement. ‘To be a true minimalist you need at least 5 every day cotton blend v-neck t-shirts, 2 pairs of Calvin Klein jeans, a silk chemise and a collection of terrariums’. What a load of bollocks.

‘Minimalism’ has become a sales pitch for a new kind of consumerism, telling us to spend a lot more on a lot less, rather than highlighting it as a potential cure for our consumerist culture. I’m not saying it is the cure, but minimising my wardrobe, my toiletries, and my collection of Star Wars memorabilia, has really helped me figure out the distinction between what I need and what I want.

It’s helped me realise other things too, like how my habit of over-consumption has affected my health, and more specifically, how my habit of over-consuming chocolate has affected my ability to walk up stairs. Its completely transformed my grocery list. I now treasure every single vegetable I buy (and not just because they are ludicrously overpriced), and I dismiss anything with zero nutritional value. Gone are the days when I would order in three different kinds of pizza for a fun Wednesday night by myself. Now I buy flour and make my own damn pizza. Well, I think about making it. Good enough.

Take-out, fuel, alcohol, meat, bras — are all things I’ve had to reduce or stop purchasing altogether. It might sound like a nightmare, but Aldi sell delicious cheap wine, and I am feeling kind of OK about my carbon footprint at the moment.

Not only have I toned down my consumption, I gave eight giant garbage bags full of my stuff away. There isn’t a single item from those trash bags that I miss, or even remember. Although I do still suffer PTSD flashbacks about my tan corduroy pants.

Everything I kept is the best of what I own, so what I’ve been left with is a clean space scattered with nice things. Things that mean something to me, or things I spent a lot of money on when I should’ve saved that money for times like this. Hindsight is an ugly bitch, you know.

My living space now makes me look far more chill than I really am. And, somehow, wealthier. I’m not sure what that’s about. Perhaps it’s reflecting my chakra or chi or serene inner ghost child? My guess is it’s because when we look at a minimalist space we see a culture of wealthy people who read GOOP and don’t understand that spending $700 on a footstool isn’t minimalism, it’s just fucking stupid.

It doesn’t have to be that way, though. Rejecting consumerism, embracing ingenuity, and looking to experiences rather than stuff to make us happy — these are choices which strike at the heart of a capitalist society that attempts to trick the impoverished into hoarding things they want without thinking about the things they truly need. You can be poor, minimalist and happy, I think.

Or, you can buy another terrarium. You elitist prick.