Simplicity by Sunny

Something about spring fuels this little productive monster within me.  I’m not sure which I prefer – my inner productive monster in the spring, or my inner lazy slug in the winter – but whichever one happens to be alive and kickin’, well, I’m at its mercy.

This particular spring my inner monster decided it’s time to redecorate.  My apartment is almost empty, so perhaps “re”-decorate isn’t the most accurate description, but I’m unconcerned about semantics.  Who can think of semantics, or anything else, when picking out new furniture?  It’s ridiculously fun.  (No worries, I’d never give up minimalism, and my inner monster is a crazy minimalist, too.)

The bathroom was my first victim.  Mostly because I couldn’t make up my mind about the furniture.  Choosing fabric colors is like choosing shoes.  There’s so many…and they’re so beautiful…but I can’t have them all.   

Shower curtains, then, seemed much easier.    

“Oh my!” I sighed, standing in the midst of Shower Curtain Land, my mouth suddenly dry.  Hands sweaty.  “Am I really looking at twelve different shower curtain designs in sage green, my favorite color of all time?”

“Yuppers,” the saleslady said.  “And they’re on sale!”

Head dizzy.

Another dozen shower curtains, these red, captured my adoration next.  Then I found a collection of creamy white ones with gorgeous stitching, and they were tempting, too.  When I thought I couldn’t possibly take any more shower curtain euphoria, a fabulous print with trees and flowers jumped out - hints of green, red, creamy white, and yellow!  

“Hm,” I thought, trying to make an impossible decision.  “If I had eight showers, this would be much easier.”

Eventually, I committed myself to a brown and cream modern graphic print.  We’ll have a long-term relationship, I’m fairly sure, because brown shower curtains compliment red toothbrush holders.  Despite not having a red toothbrush holder, I’ve always wanted one, and one exists somewhere in the world patiently waiting for me.  I also liked its matching shower hooks.  Each hook has either “hot” or “cold” scripted across a white background, resembling antique bathroom faucets.  (They look a bit like this.)

I arrived home, excitement making me run up all three flights of stairs to my apartment.  I poured a generous glass of Shiraz and flipped on John Lee Hooker.  I was ready to hang me some curtain.

“I have the blues before sunrise,” I sang along with Hooker, taking a gulp of Shiraz before attaching the first hook to the shower rod.  “Tears standing in my eyes.”  Second hook.  ”It was a miserable feeling, now babe.”  Third hook.  “A feeling I doo despise.”  Fourth hook.  “I have to leaave, leave you baby.”  Fifth hook.  ”Because you knooow you done me wrong.” 

And so it continued, much to the dismay of my neighbors, I’m sure, until hook twelve.

Hook twelve slipped from my grasp and plopped unceremoniously into my wine glass.  “No, no, no!”  I dipped my fingers into the glass, pulling it out quickly, but the damage had been done.  Hook twelve was permanently stained by red wine, the white background now a bright purple.  I couldn’t really blame it for plummeting into Shiraz, it is hard to resist, but now my hooks no longer matched.  My brand new purchase was already marred. 

For a moment, I was angry at myself.  Why had I placed my wine glass on the edge of the tub?  Why hadn’t I paid closer attention to what I was doing? 

Have I mentioned that I’m a recovering Type A?  The “recovering” part sometimes is going well, sometimes not.  I’d do anything to be a Type B.  So, I slid hook twelve onto the rod, and said, “Type B, baby.”  Every morning since, before stepping into the shower, I tap the hook.  And I remember that life is infinitely sweeter when I don’t worry about what matches or doesn’t match.  That life is best when I’m not afraid of breaking things.  When I’m not afraid of getting dirty.  Or saying things just right.  Or thinking that perfection even should exist.

My favorite home accessory is now that stained shower hook.  That daily reminder of how important it is to accept imperfection.

Find something of your own, something you see every day.  Bend it.  Stain it.  Rip it.  Scratch it.  Make it imperfect intentionally.  And keep it as a reminder that things don’t have to be perfect to be useful.  Or beautiful.  Or your favorite thing.  Remember, too, that you don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful, either.

As an enthusiastic reader, I once lived happily with books scattered everywhere.  I do mean everywhere.  An almost permanent pile rode in the backseat of my car, waiting for a return to the library.  A tower of books teetered next to my favorite spot on the sofa.  One was usually forgotten in the kitchen, discarded while refilling my wine glass.  Another next to the bathtub, waterlogged and slightly stained with pink bubble bath.  If there weren’t at least twenty books overflowing from my living spaces - well, something felt wrong.

With my decision to focus on writing this summer, I also decided to curb the number of books I check out from the library because those piles (and piles) were distracting.  Wonderfully distracting, mind you, but distracting nonetheless. 

Surprisingly, I’ve found a lovely side effect of reading only one book at a time.  When I had twenty books, I found myself anxiously skimming through the pages of whichever one I held, hurrying to finish it.  I was like the paper version of the Nascar 500.  Because, after all, I had nineteen others that needed to be read, too.  With one single book, though, I relish each page.  I’m in no rush.  Now I find myself reading meaningful paragraphs over again several times, letting the words sink in and unwind into my head.  I find myself closing the book occasionally, taking time to ponder and daydream.  Because I choose only one book from the library, I choose it carefully, and am rarely disappointed with my choice.  I go through fewer books, but I’m actually reading more. 

When I uncluttered and minimized, I believed the empty space needed to be filled, at least partially, with my favorite things.  But my favorite things, too, are best when deliberately chosen and thoughtfully pursued.  I’ve found this to be true about more than books.  Picking out one bottle of wine is more satisfying than picking out three.  With only one bottle, I must read each label, think of my impending dinner, consider my mood.  I love this process!  Capturing one excellent photograph is better than a dozen half-hearted snapshots.  With taking only one photograph, I must see the landscape.  A bouquet of roses may be stunning, but a single rose seduces my gaze to the curve of each petal.  

One flavor of Jelly Belly stuffed into my mouth is better than ten flavors, no matter how much I love sugar :) .

One is a powerful number.

All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players; / They have their exits and their entrances; / And one man in his time plays many parts… William Shakespeare

As an obsessive-compulsive neat freak who requires everything to be “just so”, I can experience a panic attack when my apartment is messy.  By messy, I mean there’s one MIA coffee cup lounging outside of the dishwasher and one pair of on-the-run socks who’ve escaped the laundry basket.  I realize this isn’t healthy, but my neurotic tendencies could be worse.  I think.

When I decided to spend my summer writing I knew my neuroticism would need to be toned down.  Otherwise I’d never get anything accomplished.  Without school to keep me in check, I’d run wild with organizing and minimizing to the exclusion of every other thing.  And I do mean EVERY other thing.  And, truth be told, I’m actually most comfortable in a space that isn’t perfect.  Not cluttered, but free-flowing.  I’m happiest in places where life is evident.  Where things are both practical and beautiful and sometimes out-of-place.

Last week I looked around my apartment, clearly set up by a neurotic Type A, and decided to change things.  But I didn’t know how… until I started thinking about my life as a stage.  Myself as a character.

My Neurotic Apartment was organized in a series of banker boxes that were stacked carefully in my walk-in closet, nicknamed “Super Closet”.  Nothing is more inconvenient than having a Super Closet.  Nothing makes less sense than hauling out - daily – my external DVD drive from the bottom of a banker’s box when I want to watch 30 Rock.  Nothing makes less sense than storing anything in a banker’s box (and in the back of a closet, no less) when you use it every day.  Do you know how much time I’ve wasted going back and forth from my walk-in Super Closet to “unpack” something that’s stored away when it shouldn’t be stored at all?  Well, I’m not going to tell you.  It’s darn right embarrassing.

Our homes don’t need to look perfect.  Or be perfect.  Or impress anyone.  The best design for your home is one that sets the stage of your life in a practical and personally pleasing way.

I always appreciate a flair for the dramatic, so I really like the idea of setting a stage for my life.  The idea of it motivates me.  It gives me a new perspective by thinking of myself as a character.  Not pretending to be someone else.  I mean visualizing myself as a character starring in Her Fabulous Existence.  I mean thinking outside of my mental box and wondering how someone (much smarter and more stylish than me) would design my life if I were a character in a movie.   

One of my favorite aspects of watching movies is taking note of the sets.  Nancy Meyers is a particular favorite.  Her designs are more cluttered than I’d want for myself, but I adore her style all the same.  (Take a look what she did for the movie It’s Complicated.  I also drool over Dr. Brennan’s loft and Seeley’s apartment in the show Bones.  Oh, and I can’t forget to mention Millie’s loft in Because I Said So.)  I find myself falling head-over-heels over sets that truly reflect the character who lives there.

How can you design your stage?  How would you, as a brilliant character, live?  And if what you imagine is feasible, go for it.  And if it’s not at all realistic, get as close as possible.  Life’s simpler when you design your perfect backdrop.  

For myself, I wanted to set my apartment up as a writing cave (minus the darkness and bugs).  A little hideaway designed for writing, reading, watching movies, and munching Spanish olives.  All the while, of course, remaining a die-hard minimalist.

“I got lots of work to do!” I said while rolling up my sleeves.  I was ready to tackle My Neurotic Apartment.

Since my apartment is practically naked as-is, I focused not on the furniture arrangement, but on letting go of The Perfectly Organized Minimal Apartment.  I wanted to give up my need to control the items in my home, a losing battle anyway.

I took my Netbook from its shelf in the Super Closet and set it up on my dining room table, where it shall stay.  Now it’s ready for action at the simple push of a button.  I’ve given up the perfect stack of books on my mantle and now keep them nonchalantly next to my Netbook.  I’ve converted my fruit bowl into an electronic gizmo holder (for my headphones and external DVD drive) so they’re within easy reach.  I’ve evicted my bananas from the fruit bowl and thrown them onto my kitchen counter.  

When I read, I like to bury myself under my thick quilt and pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.  As you could guess, I stored my quilt in the Super Closet, next to my electronics.  Now it’s neatly folded when not in use, but it stays slung over the back cushions.  How lovely – and simple – it is to come home, grab a book, and snuggle into my couch. 

I have two pairs of shoes that I wear 99% of the time.  Their home is now at the front door because, really, does it make sense to drag them back to the closet when I know I’ll need them the next morning? 

Like setting the stage of a play, we must set the stage of our lives. 

I converted my table into a writing spot.  I made my couch a fluffy reading nook.  I put my shoes at the door.  I made these changes because I want my life to be about writing, reading, and being able to run out the door at a moment’s notice. 

In the process of narrowing in on these activities, I further minimized my drawers and closets of stuff that no longer provides happiness or purpose.  Setting the stage gives way to purging useless props.  Some items I got rid of:

• My Bluetooth headset because I rarely talk on the phone. 
• Memory sticks for my laptop because I save docs to “the cloud”. 
• Library books.  I often check too many library books out at one time (a seemingly impossible thing to do, I once thought) and reduced my stack to four.  I returned those books that were just “time wasters”, though a good time waster, if you ask me.  As I set my stage for writing this summer, though, they’re superfluous.   

If you’re looking to simplify your own home, ask yourself first, what do you want to do there?  How can your home support who you are and what you love?  If you paint, are your brushes placed somewhere they can anxiously await your hand?   If you cook, are your spices arranged so that grabbing one is convenient?  Also be honest about what you don’t want to do in your home.  If you aren’t into cooking, be honest about it, and donate your bread maker.  If you don’t like reading, donate your Louis L’Amour collection.  You may have a nicely set stage (gorgeous kitchen, full bookshelf), but if it’s for the wrong play (wrong life), it doesn’t make sense.  Setting up what IS important energizes you, just by seeing your home as a reflection of who you REALLY are.

The older I get (not that I’m old, mind you), the more interesting life becomes.  I notice unexpected connections in almost everything.  Sometimes I see patterns, see how things in my life – and in the lives of others – become linked.  Other times I experience absolute chaos that eventually (and amazingly) makes sense.  I’m continually seeing, too, how wrong I was about this, or how wrong I surely remain about that. 

Yeah, getting “older and wiser” is quite a humbling experience.

Knowing that life is unpredictable, I wasn’t surprised when Ms. Pearl moved to Rural SW, Colorado.  Ms. Pearl was one of my co-workers back in Florida.  She moved out here a year after I did.  I, however, was very surprised that we kept in touch after her move.  An email once in a while, a picture now and again.  We’d never been close while working together and, actually, I thought she kinda disliked me.  Surprising, I know, because – quite frankly – I’m darn right loveable. 

When she wound up in Denver this past weekend, she invited me to dinner.  Not one to turn down dinner invitations, I accepted and was taken aback by her enthusiasm.  “I can’t wait to see you!” She exclaimed. 

Really?  Hm.  I began to worry.  My cynical side wondered if she was buttering me up for an Amway proposal.

When we settled into our patio table at Pasquini’s, I felt a smidge of nervousness.  But we soon found ourselves laughing and talking, big bites of calzone the only break in our excited conversation.  That night I had dinner with someone I’d not known very well, but someone I realize was willing to be my friend years ago.  And is a friend now.  I never saw it before, but it was always there.

I’ve met a lot of people in my life.  I’ve had lunches and dinners with them, seen movies with them, met for happy hour with them.  But until I moved to Colorado, I didn’t have friends.  When I didn’t know who I was and pretended to be someone else, someone ”cooler”, I hid behind a mask.  I’ve learned that if you can’t be open and honest about yourself, it’s hard to find people who even can be your friend.  Once I dropped the mask, I found friends.  And my friends have taught me things I could never have learned from a book.  How to get excited about life and appreciate life.  If it weren’t for my friends, I wouldn’t be Sunny.

If I had to give a one-word answer to what has simplified my life the most, I’d not hesitate.  Friends. 

Tell me, what’s simpler than being with a friend?  Talking about books and shoes over coffee, that’s the simplest – and most wonderful – afternoon I can imagine.  A friend doesn’t care about the labels of your clothes, whether your lipstick has smudged, or what your social status is.  When you’re with a friend, you don’t worry about what you look like or whether you’ve said something stupid.  A friend makes you feel good about yourself, so that you don’t seek approval in other unhealthy ways.  Bad romantic relationships, addictions to drugs/alcohol, buying things that create debt.  How many of these circumstances could be avoided… because of a friend?  A person who encourages you, listens to you, brings out the good in you, and makes you want to be a better person.  A person who requires your commitment and authenticity because they need your support, too.  It’s a give-’n-take kinda thing.

A friend is the most valuable accessory you can have, but it’s not easy finding a true one.  It takes a lotta searching.  If you act like a friend, though, you’ll find friends.  So, treat everyone you know as if they’re already your friend.  Give them your respect and compassion.  Because you never know where your new friend will come from.  Invite people out for coffee and lunch.  Interact with as many people as possible until you build a circle of friends who love you.  Friends who will simplify your life by filling you with the things you need – hope, excitement, conversations over coffee, shared burdens, shared joys – and steering you away from the things you don’t.  

Oh, and of course, friends are an excellent source for borrowing such things as dining room tables, lawn mowers, earrings, books….  And if you’re REALLY lucky, they’ll even feed you occasionally.

I met a man six months ago and instantly fell in love.  Well, I sort of met him. 

I spend an unnatural amount of time in bookstores.  Reading a book, while being surrounded by books – vanilla latte steaming to the right, biscotti stacked to the left - is the exact environment I hope heaven to be.  Considering my sins, however, I’m willing to settle for an exceptionally toasty library and a pot of Folgers.  Sinning requires flexibility in your after-death expectations.

During a Saturday afternoon at Barnes & Noble, I was sipping my vanilla frothiness while reading about Bill the Vampire à la Charlaine Harris.  Then I glanced up and saw him.

His faded tee-shirt advertised Bolder Boulder 2009.  His jeans, once dark, were worn at the knees.  His dark hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been driving with the windows down.  There was a rough 5 o’clock shadow on his chin.  His eyes were framed by crinkles, indicating a smiley nature.  He wore sneakers, one shoelace broken.  As he slid into an overstuffed chair, he sighed and grinned, clearly content to be in a bookstore on a lazy Saturday.

In other words, he was Sunny’s version of the male pin-up.

He looked like a camping-and-hiking kinda guy.  Unafraid of hooking a worm or drinking Fat Tire.  But he also had a polite demeanor as indicated by the elegant crossing of his legs, avoiding the more common feet-on-table lounging position, and I felt confident that he wasn’t the type to burp in public or order drinks on a first date with the word “sex” in it.  Then his hands cracked open the book in his lap, and I finally noticed the title.  It was a cookbook on Italian cuisine.

I looked away, checking to make sure drool wasn’t dripping down my chin.  “Sunny,” I told myself.  “Get a grip!”  To calm the erratic beating of my heart, I convinced myself that he probably had two-inch toe nails and didn’t brush his teeth.  Determined to ignore him, I went back to my book, stealing a glance only occasionally because is was beyond my self-control not to. 

When I went to order another latte, I had to pass Mr. Cookbook’s chair.  The little old lady sitting next to him glanced up at me.  “Do you work here?” She asked, catching me off guard.

“Um, no,” I said.  “Is everything okay?”

“Well, I was hoping someone could help me.  I can’t walk around too good, but I’d love to read a book while I’m waiting for my granddaughter.”

I started to say that I’d find her a book, no problem, but Mr. Cookbook beat me to it.  “I’ll find you a book,” he said in the happiest voice I’d ever heard.  He looked up at me and winked.  The wink said, “Don’t worry, I got this.” 

“What kind of book do you want?” He asked.

The little old lady thought hard for a moment.  “Penguins,” she said with a firm nod.  “I’ve always loved penguins.”

Several minutes later, latte refilled, I made the trek back to my chair.  And there was Mr. Cookbook, who’d returned with sixteen books on penguins.  He patiently listened to her stories about Antarctica, which I also listened to via eavesdropping.  He occasionally revealed the little dimple in his left cheek when he smiled at her.

And that’s when I fell in love.  That happy spirit.  That patience.  That broken shoelace.

Now, months later, I sometimes wake up at 3 AM in a cold sweat, Mr. Italian Cookbook having haunted by dreams.  “Stupid, stupid Sunny,” I mutter.  “Why didn’t you ask him out?”

Or at least said hello?

Or… Anything!

He may have been married, even though he wasn’t wearing a ring.  He may have flatly said no.  But at least I would’ve tried.  And I’d get better sleep.

As crazy, anti-feminist, and girly as it may sound, I dream of finding a Mr. Cookbook.  There are undoubtedly many benefits of the single life – and I enjoy all of them.  I’m definitely happier today - as an independent, strong, ridiculously content single woman – than I ever was while dating Mr. Wrong.  Still, if I could wish it so, I’d find Mr. Cookbook (or a good carbon copy) and force him to spend many marinara drenched evenings with me.  I’d love to, well, fall in love. 

Unfortunately there are some dreams beyond our control.  Mr. Cookbook’s reappearance.  Winning the lottery.  Having a good hair day.  But there are even more dreams that are completely within our power. 

This summer I don’t have any college classes.  It’s my first “free” summer in three years.  I can do whatever the heck I want after punching out my 40 hours.  Having this much irresponsibility to embrace is delightfully overwhelming.  I’ve gone a little crazy the past several weeks since the spring semester ended.  I’ve read 32 books, watched 26 movies, drank ___ bottles of wine (nope, not admitting to the actual number), and lost dozens of hours of sleep.  As wonderful as it’s been, I can’t keep up this schedule anymore.  It’s more exhausting than school! 

More importantly, I want to accomplish a dream this summer, and put movies – even books (!) – aside for the next three months.  I don’t want to accomplish just “a dream”.  Instead I want to accomplish this dream of mine that won’t go away, despite how good I’ve gotten at ignoring it.  The kind of dream that creates a painful physical yearning.  So I’m going for it.  Mostly because I hate pain. 

This summer I’m going to write and finish a novel.  A witty super-fantastic novel, of course. 

Nothing haunts you more than your lifelong dream once you’ve really pushed it away.  After choosing the nursing program, and finding myself committed to two years of biology (along with two years of simulated/real vomit, which is terrifying in and of itself for me) I thought about my dream of writing.  I feel like becoming a nurse is a form of cheating on my One True Love.  If I could allow myself to be completely impractical, I’d write books all day.  There’s no question.  I have no intention of quitting school, or giving up nursing, but on the same hand, I can no longer endure the internal struggle about my writing life (or lack thereof).

“Writing is such a terrible, slim-chanced, ridiculous pursuit!” I tell myself constantly.  “I’ll start dreaming about publication, which will never happen, and after my dreams are dashed, I’ll be more miserable than before.  Really, then, what’s the point?”

My conscience, who sounds (oddly enough) like Gerard Depardieu, interrupts my silent rants.  “Ohv courze eet’s sleme-chahnce eef you dohn’t trry!”

“But I have tried!”

“Noht vary heard, you idioht!” 

Gerard’s right, as usual.

For the next three months I don’t have to worry about the nursing program.  I don’t have to cheat behind my pen’s back.  I’ve decided to give it all I got and finish a manuscript.  I want to look back at the Summer of 2011 as “The Summer I Accomplished My Dream”.  And because I don’t want to listen to Gerard Depardieu anymore.  He’s mean to me.

Sure, there’s little chance of getting published, but that’s not the accomplishment I’m concentrating on.  I’m focused on simply finishing a novel.  I’ll stress out over the next steps later. 

I know that you, too, have missed opportunities.  Regrets.  Wished-I-Wouldas.  I-Wish-I-Couldas.  Uh oh – watch out! - here comes Gerard.  “You idioht!”  Yeah, that’s right, he’s talking to you this time.  Focus on a dream this summer.  A dream within your control and a dream that’s important to you.  Create a summer that one day you’ll look back at and say, “The Summer of 2011 is when I did it!”  

You’ll probably be shocked to learn that I’m a bit eccentric.  I decided I wanted to really really really focus on a Summer of Writing.  I want to embrace the “focus” concept to the fullest extent.  I encourage you to do the same.  So here are some things I did over Memorial Day weekend to prepare myself for being extremely lazy (on the practical side of life) so I can be extremely productive (on the writing/impractical side of life): 

1.  I stocked up for 3 months.  This is an anti-minimalist thing to do, if you’re the die-hard radical type such as myself.  I’m actually a bit shocked at my behavior because my kitchen cupboards actually have food in them.  I filled my cupboards with three months’ worth of my personally loved staples: whole-grain pasta, marinara sauce, olives, dark chocolate, peanut butter (LOTS of peanut butter), pesto, granola, and – yup – wine (LOTS of wine).  The only grocery shopping I’ll have to do will be for fruits, vegetables, and yogurt.  Time saver and, considering my impulsive nature around the olive bar, a money saver, too.

I also stocked up on 3 months’ worth of non-food items like shampoo, cleaning supplies, sunblock, etc. to prevent any trips to Target.  It’s amazing how easily that store steals an entire day from me.  A thief dressed in a red bulls eye.  I blame it on the beautiful clearance shelves.

2. I’m encouraging my writing habit by combining three loves - writing, photography, eating, blogging.  I’m in the process of setting up a new blog, which I’m really excited about.  When it’s ready for visitors, I’ll send you an invite and hope that you’ll stop by.  I’ve decided to write reviews for restaurants, bistros, cafes, etc. throughout Colorado.  I’ll be forced to lounge on a patio, sip something spicy, munch something sweet, while transporting myself into the mystery and mayhem that I create for my characters.  It’ll be an excellent way to enjoy the summer WHILE accomplishing my dream.

3.  I canceled my Internet connection.  No falling prey to hours of Hulu this summer.  But, oh, I’ll miss you.  Terribly.

4.  I updated my Netflix account down to 1-DVD-At-A-Time.  I was at 2 DVDs until this past weekend.  This way I can still enjoy a movie, but it’ll be more thoughtful and as a reward to a Writing Day Well Done.

5.  I’ve rearranged my apartment to support writing.  My dining table is now a writing desk.  I did an extremely thorough minimizing session to clear all distractions.  All that remains is what’s required for writing.  And eating.  And taking the occasional nap.

Whether it’s skydiving or learning Italian, painting or starting a business, pick a dream.  Redesign as much of your life as possible to put your focus on it.  Then give it your best shot.  And, for heaven’s sake, have a good time while you’re at it!  No frowning.  If I see any frowning, I’ll force you to drink a piña colada with me.  

It’s so easy to let a summer drift by.  Every September I look back and wonder where the “dog days” disappeared to.  They only disappeared because I wasn’t paying attention.  Even if your dream is simply to enjoy – to a ridiculously high level – every day of this summer, do that.  Splash in warm rain showers.  Go fishing, even when you think there’s no time.  Play hooky from work and go ride rollercoasters and eat cotton candy.  Drag a bag of books to the river – put your feet in – and melt into the afternoon with each flip of the page.  

…. Or just say hello to a beautiful stranger at Barnes & Noble.