I’m sitting on my balcony on a striped beach towel circa 1980 with the grossest combination of colors, each stripe another poor choice. My hair is the nast, and I’m in the same workout clothes that I’ve been in since 8am when I decided I would go to the gym and never went. I’m scrolling through social media and looking at my dead basil plant that was given to me as a house warming gift two years ago and subsequently died three weeks later now resembling a set piece from a Tim Burton movie. I’m so proud.
When I’m jealous of people, I’m never drawn to the overly styled homes, or the girls with eyelash extensions and so much makeup I find myself contemplating the hours it would take to accomplish such a task. But I am drawn to the minimalist; she lures me in to thinking she’s so simple. She’s the one in photos with the flawless white walls, oversized knit sweater that lays perfectly on her little frame, dewy skin, beach waves with no frizz or a top bun that’s about to topple but never will. She’s probably wearing boyfriend jeans on a white bed with sheets undone tousled and fluffy, peonies perched in a table-top canvas bag, one small green plant hanging from a rope contraption not dying, and one lone piece of art perfectly curated for it’s large white walls flanked by mammoth sized windows. I can’t do it, let me out.
I’m trying to simplify my life because I’ve been convinced that the excessiveness of our lives can be overruled if we really want to. We have the power to bow out of the race and minimize, not in the perfect way, but the ‘I like pretty things but I’ve stopped giving a damn’ way. I’ve stopped following people on instagram that make me discontent. If you’re traveling every five seconds, and you always look perfect and I’m pretty sure you don’t work but just take pictures of you and your kid at the Eiffel tower or in your abnormally large apartment, you’re stressing me out. It’s nothing personal, it’s just your life is annoying to me. I want you to go and enjoy your happy and your blonde hair and I’m going to enjoy my happy here on my striped towel with my cat who definitely does not have an L.A. body, but we’re both content just the same. So cheers to messiness and minimalism that isn’t always white and pretty. And cheers to the happiness that comes with being grateful for my imperfection, dead basil plant and all.
Photo courtesy of the West Elm Blog