Thrifting became my new minimalism
What enticed me for its simplicity repelled me in its rigidity, and this was not a reflection of the movement itself, but of my toxic rule-following personality trait.
This last month of the year is usually a very dark emotional time for me, so I wanted to keep things light with a newer essay I’ve written. Minimalism (the recent lifestyle trend of only buying and using items that lend purpose and function) used to be such a strong part of my personality that I felt constant conflict and self-criticism over my purchases, lifestyle and design choices. It was all part of the process and I confidently exhale now that I see how it led me back to myself. Happy Monday and you’ll hear from me next week <3
“This just…doesn’t feel like you,” my professor commented, as he handed back my resume.
The page I designed was black and white, my name written in sans serif, impersonal icons to indicate my email address, phone number and LinkedIn profile. It looked classy and clean with lots of white space, but it felt more computer generated than it did thoughtfully designed.
As a graphic design major, resumes were of the utmost importance, not just for the content listed on them but for the minor aesthetic details. Every font choice, color scheme and quirky illustration would be the first impression a potential employer would have of your creativity and personality.
My artistic style began to create itself that year, and there was nothing simple or clean about it. I would often choose bizarre colors that shouldn’t have worked together but somehow did (this was the exact feedback I received from a harsh art professor) and my illustration style was messy and fluid, almost abstract. For some reason none of this seemed “professional” to me, and I believed that “real” designers probably kept things minimal.
The backstory I couldn’t possibly explain to my professor was that he had caught me in the height of my Minimalism Years, not exactly referring to the artistic movement of the 1960s. I watched the documentary on Netflix, subscribed to the podcast and immediately became obsessed with organizing and simplifying my life. I thought this meant that I could only own six pairs of jeans, never in the same wash. That my preferred color schemes should only be muddled earth tones. That every one of my surfaces should be clear of knick knacks, and my bookshelves perfectly curated.
I followed the rules so diligently that I once carried a vintage 80s rainbow coffee mug around an entire thrift store, only to set it back down on the shelf, convincing myself that I didn’t “need” it. I would open my kitchen cabinet every morning trying to forget about the missing piece, but was filled with regret for so many consecutive days that I revisited the store the next week, hoping to bring it home, but it was long gone.
Around the same time, I shifted my phone into grayscale for about two years, hearing that it helped keep people present with their surroundings because social media was more unappealing without its colors. It worked as intended in this way for a while, but eventually my eyes became so adjusted to the somber black-and-white that the mindless scrolling commenced.
Minimalism did, however, introduce me to practical steps of environmentalism. I adopted the Secondhand First mantra, and the guilt I’d felt from retail therapy suddenly changed its tune to activism. Without an environmental impact, I could in theory own as much vintage denim as I pleased while simultaneously rebelling against Big Box Fast Fashion companies that are polluting not only our closets but our oceans.
This was all assuming that I could reconcile my internal conflict of willingly running into the arms of failure. I am good at knowing the rules, memorizing them in different languages and abiding by them so closely that they become a part of my identity, but actively choosing to reject them triggers the many memories of my parents not allowing me to give up, whether it be first grade cheerleading or middle school orchestra.
So while minimalism enticed me for its simplicity, it repelled me in its rigidity. This is not a reflection of the movement itself, but of my toxic rule-following personality trait. This exact pattern is what soured me of religion, creativity and now minimalism. The thrill of abiding by a rule book fades after a few years, when the box in which I’ve inadvertently placed myself begins to feel tiny and claustrophobic.
I went home after class that day and dragged the little document into my little virtual trashcan in the corner of my desktop, the shrill paper crunch noise sounding extra patronizing. I started completely over, using a weird yellow-green-light blue-dark blue color scheme, a fun cowboy typeface and threw in a bullhorn skull illustration for good measure. It came together rather quickly, actually faster than the first draft, probably because it’s what felt most natural.
As for the rainbow mug, we were reunited years later at a local Value Village, and I drink my coffee out of it everyday. When I saw it there on the shelf amongst a plethora of “#1 Dad” and kitschy Floridian travel mugs, I clutched it so tight that I could’ve easily broken the handle. It now has a twin in my kitchen cupboard and I hope to eventually collect a full set.
So while I’m no longer an advocate of completely downsizing my possessions and living out of a tiny home in a parking lot somewhere, I’m grateful for my Minimalism Years because they taught me most about my values.
I became a damn good editor, slicing away extraneous words to make my language more poignant. I discovered that I’m more comfortable wearing cotton and denim rather than polyester and spandex. I give myself permission to take home any cute mug I want, as long as it’s sturdy, quirky and white. And for as much as I love reading, I rent more books at the library than I buy from a local bookshop.
Looking back, my biggest growth steps have been when I knew what I ought to have done and consciously disobeyed my guilty convictions. The panic of failure eventually subsides and I can ease into the company of myself, free of judgment with a glass of wine.