Simplicity by Sunny

I’ve been receiving some lovely emails from SBS readers.  While my ego does enlarge after hearing that my posts are appreciated (I’m human, after all), I’m also humbled.  I’m reminded that what brings me happiness, and what brings me pain, are the same things that bring you happiness and pain, too.  I’m made aware that the world doesn’t revolve around me, it revolves around us.  We’re in this crazy ride together and I’m glad to be riding the crazy bus with all of you.

I’ve also been reading many complaints about technology.  The Internet. Texts.  Facebook.  The ways we’re manipulated by Smartphones and e-mail is an often discussed topic.  Digital sabbaticals abound.  We supposedly suffer at the mercy of technology by losing our connection to real life.

I recognize the benefits I, myself, receive when I disconnect.  Time I spend in nature (or in the bathtub) rejuvenates me.  Dinners I share with in-the-flesh friends nourishes my spirit and my tummy.  On the very same hand, though, I give thanks to technology.

I’ve always known that I’m odd.  There are a plethora of things about me that make me weird.  After discovering the world of blogs, I realize there are many of us eccentric folks who scatter the world.  I’ve found peace in this discovery.  I’ve found a sense of connection that would never exist if not for technology.  Online forums.  YouTube.  If not for miss minimalist, RowdyKittens, becoming minimalist, zen habits…  If not for my own blog.

I’ve been blogging for almost two years and during this time of revealing myself freely through the online written word (albeit anonymously) I’ve learned how to be more open and honest with those I meet in person, too.  Being part of my online community, surrounded by like-minded friends, has given me a ridiculous amount of courage to enter the real world, unafraid of what makes me different.

When I sold my stereo on Craigslist, which I wrote about at the beginning of my blog here, I found myself uncomfortable with the buyer’s strange glances at my empty apartment.  I told him that I was moving to Uganda to become a missionary.  (I don’t know why I didn’t say something more believable.  What pops out of my mouth can never be predicted ).  That was me then.  In contrast, I recently had a coffee date with a new co-worker, and five minutes into our lattes I said, “It’s only fair to tell you upfront that I’m a crazy person who, among other strange things, lives without furniture.”

“Well,” she said, giving it thought for a moment.  “It’s better than living without clothes, right?”

As the evening progressed, she shared herself easily with me, after I’d shared easily with her.  We had four lattes that night before heading home, having solidified a friendship. 

This new friendship is one example of how I must thank you, dear reader, because you – your support, your kind words, your friendship – have given me more than I can ever give you.  You let me be myself here, which allows me to be myself out there, too.  Which means that life’s pretty great, thanks to you.  There’s nothing better than getting to be who you are… all the time.

My blog, and the use of technology, has given me friends, revelations, and self-confidence.  I’m thankful to technology and the way it brings us all together.

My blog has brought me into contact with a young woman from Portugal, whose English is written elegantly and warmly.  She’s sent me photographs of Lisbon.  How wonderful it is to learn about life across the ocean!  Glimpsing something that can’t be seen at Wikipedia.  Reading her emails is a treat. 

There’s Amy, the sweetest redhead I’ve ever met.  She contacted me through my blog shortly before spending last summer interning in Denver.  A year later I’m blessed to have her as my friend.  A friend I admire for her spunk.  She relocated to Washington state a few months ago and, during her road trip west, she went camping in the middle of desolate Wyoming, surrounded by gorgeous foliage.  I’d worry about bears and mountain men, but not her.  I’m pretty sure that girl can do anything.  Each time she accomplishes something, I think, “Wow, she did the seemingly impossible, so I bet I can, too.”

And there’s Kel, who mentioned his love for the Kindle in a comment a few posts back.  “No electronic books for me!”  I proclaimed.  But my curiosity was piqued and, in the space of one day, I’d uploaded the Kindle for PC app and read an entire e-book in one sitting.  Now I’m convinced.  I need a Kindle.

Of course, there’s Bradon, too, who moved to Denver a few weeks ago from Texas.  On a hot Saturday in Boulder he kept me company, reminding me how important bare feet and chilly creeks are.

Without technology, I’d not have Amy’s adventures to hear about – and take great pleasure in.  I’d not have pictures from Portugal.  Or Kindle lust.  Or your comments to learn from and respond to.  Most important, without technology, I wouldn’t be this person I am today.

It’s with great sincerity that I offer you all my greatest thanks.

This blog wasn’t created of my own volition.  The most fabulous things in my life rarely are.  My friend A.W. suggested it.   Because of her, I’ve found an outlet that’s made me appreciate myself exactly as I am.  A hobby that’s given me friends, a sense of community, and countless happy hours of typing away.  A.W., I don’t think I’ve ever told you properly, so here goes – “Thank you!”   

This isn’t my blog as much as it is our blog.  I reserve the right, of course, to share my stories because it’s in my nature to monopolize a conversation.  But that’s how I like to think of SBS – a conversation.  A little corner of the Internet that’s our home, albeit minimally decorated.  A place to explore living simply, living minimally, and (best of all) living eccentrically.  So, I ask for your help.  If there’s anything you want me to write about, please leave a comment or send me an email at ColoradoSunny@live.com.  I don’t have all the answers, but together we might figure a little something out.

Action may not always bring happiness; but there is no happiness without action.  Benjamin Disraeli

I’m the kind of person who doesn’t feel (at all) guilty about eating bon-bons while soaking in the tub, literary posh in one hand and Chianti in the other.  Laziness, in my opinion, is required for a life worth living.  But the day I was laid-off was not an appropriate time for bubbles and chocolate.  Despite the four-month warning I’d been given, despite how emotionally drained I was, and despite having no idea what my Plan of Action would be, I made immediate changes to my finances.  And to habits that require money. 

Although my lifestyle and priorities are different from yours, I wanted to share these changes anyway.  And if you have ideas for living on the cheap, don’t hesitate in sharing them with me!  I’m determined to become Madam Sunny ~ Master of living elegantly & happily on barely any moolah.

1.  I put Netflix on hold.  This was tough because I have an emotional attachment to my queue list, but instead of canceling it outright, I used their option of placing my account “on hold”, which can be done for a maximum of 3 months. 

2.  I visited my barista and told her she wouldn’t be seeing me for a while.  I love my barista.  Her personality is a better wake-up device than espresso.  I stopped by and let her know that I wasn’t abandoning her, but wouldn’t be around as often.  I’ve since cut out fancy coffees during the week.  I’ve found an excellent substitute (Sunny can live without fancy coffee, but not without any coffee!) for my summertime iced coffees.  I use a Melitta single-serve coffee maker  – it’s RED, which further sweetens the setup.  It sits on top of my 16 ounce mug, which I fill half-way with double-strength coffee.  I allow it to sit for 5-10 minutes as the heat blows off, and then fill the rest of the cup with ice.  Perfecto! 

3.  I reset my A/C and purchased a box fax.  I love A/C.  It’s one of those luxuries that I consider a necessity.  My tolerance for heat has lessened after my years in Florida, but even so I increased the temperature in my apartment and purchased a box fan for $10.  I’m still chillin’, just at a lower cost.

4. I researched good wines under $8. The soon-to-be unemployed need the luxury of intoxication. I’ve got a list of wines under $8 that are reportedly decent.  I’ve already found an ally in Barefoot’s $6 red zin. 

5. I made a list of extremely cheap eats to make at home. Since I don’t cook, it’s not a complicated list. On it I have different forms of the peanut butter sandwich, pita pizzas, chips & salsa.

6. I electronically bookmarked the weekly ad for my grocery store, so I can plan ahead on how I’m going to feed myself with only a little bit o’ money.

7. I filled out an application for refinancing my car at the credit union, where the rates are cheaper.  Hopefully it’ll save me on my monthly car payment.

8. I paid the remaining balance on my car insurance. There wasn’t a large amount left and paying it now saved me $15 in transaction fees that are normally added in with the smaller monthly payments.

9. I needed an oil change for Eddie. I found an online coupon at the dealership that reduces the cost to less than the Quickie Lube.

10.  I listed my digital camera, hiking gear, and a few other valuables on eBay.  Although not entirely necessary at this point, I feel better liquidating stuff sooner rather than later.  And it’s not as awful as it sounds.  I have a 8 MP digital camera in my Android phone, and I still have the ability to go hiking.  Life hasn’t lost its meaning, just some of its accessories .

11.  Using yelp.com, I created a list of cafes that are located within 5 miles of my apartment.  I can drink my Saturday & Sunday cappuccinos while using free Wi-Fi, but burn less gas (a.k.a. money) doing so.  I tend to drive around like a gypsy (perhaps my worst remaining complication to my otherwise minimalist existence) and need to chop down my gas expenditures.

12.  I created a list of cheaper living arrangements if I should need to move before my lease is over, either because it’s too expensive for my next income level or too far a commute.  I can break my lease for the tune of $1,500 + 30 days’ notice.  It’s impossible to know which will be better - to stay or to go – but I’ve already got some ideas ready.  There are roommate and sublet options listed on craigslist and inexpensive studios downtown.

As a minimalist these past three years, I’d already simplified my finances.  No cable TV or Internet.  No gym membership.  No contracts that require sweating over, except my apartment lease.  When I sat down with my monthly budget, I wasn’t nearly as overwhelmed as I expected.  No difficult phone calls to make or panic buttons to press.  For now I’m doing all that I can do.  I’m cutting back and changing my expectations.  I’m having fun, too, as I learn to blend frugality with contentment.

I lost my job last week. 

Every list that I’ve made, budget I’ve designed, plan I’ve looked forward to, is now obsolete.

With the economy unwilling to forgive since 2008, and me working in commercial real estate, I’d been prepared for a job loss.  But not prepared for it last week.  I’ve fantasized about quitting my job at least once every day.  Once before lunch.  Once after lunch.  But imagining a voluntary runaway is different from being told your job is no longer needed.

Before it’s assumed that I set fire to something or mooned the CFO (things I’ve imagined, but refrained from), my job – along with everyone else’s job in my department – is being erased because the large company I work for is cutting off its real estate arm.  Our portfolio of buildings is up for grabs.  With great luck, if it can be called that, I’ve been given a four-month notice because selling commercial properties is a complicated process and I’ll be needed to see it through.  So, I have four months to prepare whatever path is ahead of me.  I’ll be given a small severance and letters of recommendation.  Well, only if I don’t set fire to anything in the meanwhile. 

I was given the afternoon off to absorb the news.

The sun was bright.  The sky blue.  The temperature 95 degrees.  I crawled into Eddie, shivering despite the summer heat.  I slipped on my sunglasses.  I backed out of the parking spot that I’ve occupied for the past four years.  I rolled down the windows, breathing in hot dry Colorado air, and wondered if I’d ever feel warm again.  I reached the stop light and grabbed my phone.  But there was no one to call.

For the first time in four years, I yearned for my dad.  We haven’t spoken since the day I left Florida, for mutual reasons.  I couldn’t call him and ask for his advice.  All of my friends were either working, or not the kind of person you call and say, “How ya doin’?  Just lost my job, wanna get loaded?” 

There was no one to go home to.  No one to call. 

I’ve never felt so lonely.

Eddie and I drove without a destination except away.  With the windows down, air whipping in and out, hands shaky on the wheel, I didn’t head to the mountains like I usually do when I need a drive.  Instead I found myself on Hwy 83 where the two lane road is surrounded by red barns and dairy cows.  Where there’s flat pasture and cranky old pick-ups.  Tractors mowing lawns.  It’s a landscape reminiscent of my hometown in Wisconsin.  I sought the familiarity of it.

I parked on the side of the road, next to the black-and-white cows, and cut the engine.  I climbed onto the hood of my car so I could see the countryside clearly.  Grass shuffled against the breeze and it sounded sweet.

Then I cried.  Quiet, polite tears. 

I didn’t cry because I’d miss my job.  I’d been wanting to leave it anyway.  I didn’t cry because there weren’t options ahead.  But I didn’t know, and still don’t know, how this will affect my expensive apartment.  Or my plans for the nursing program.  Or my wine habit.  All of the progress I’ve made since moving to Denver  – would it all disappear?

Looking across to one of the peeling barns in the distance, I thought back to when I was a Midwestern kid.  The whole world a land of opportunity, to be bent and shaped as I saw fit.  I remembered all the trouble I was back then.  Being escorted home by the sheriff for trespassing.  Cheating on my calculus exams.  Skipping school.  Smoking in the bathroom.  Racing stolen four-wheelers through the backwoods of northern Wisconsin (we returned them eventually).  Sneaking into bars at seventeen by flirting with the bartenders.   

There were, of course, consequences to these things.  I was a bad kid, a troubled kid, and paid the price for it.  Detention, being shunned by the “good” kids, treated unfairly by teachers, and my dad avoided me at all costs. 

There are some good memories, too.  Fishing on the Peshtigo River.  Swimming at the YMCA every morning before school, ears submerged in chlorinated water, the vibrating silence and movement of my limbs providing peace when it existed nowhere else.  Sledding in Meadowbrook Park.  Camping every weekend at Potawatomi State Park in Door County, lounging barefooted in canvas chairs next to a campfire.  

The good.  The bad.  Back in the Midwest, when I was a rebel child, life wasn’t divided by these things.  Because every time I got knocked down, deservedly or not, I always popped right back up.  There was endless energy within.  Invincibility.  And naiveté, of course, which isn’t always a terrible thing.

That’s why I cried on the side of Hwy 83.  I wanted to pop back up, but after so much heart break and struggle - some of which I’ve created enthusiastically and stupidly on my own, some of which a result of circumstance, some of which have brought hidden gifts, but have hurt just the same  - I no longer possessed endless energy.  I’d never felt so tired as I did that afternoon, sitting on top of my car in the middle of nowhere.

I held up well through the rest of that week.  Until Friday afternoon.

While driving along a deserted country road, this time Hwy 105, a police officer pulled me over for doing 62 mph in a 50 mph zone.  I sat, completely dejected, waiting while he wrote my $162 speeding ticket.  Was this really happening to me?  Getting laid off and being slapped with a ticket… within the space of three days?

He ripped off my copy from his little metal clipboard and said, “Now drive safe, you hear?”  Implying that  I wasn’t a safe driver, despite never having been in an accident and never having been pulled over for speeding.  (Okay, once before in Florida I was caught speeding, but it’s required to speed on I-95.)

I seriously considered backing him over with my car, but despite the sense of satisfaction it would’ve given, I’m too sensitive to be thrown in the slammer.  I allowed him, then, to drive away in a dust cloud of self-righteousness.

When he was gone, I stumbled out of my car, steadying myself against Eddie’s strong outline… and threw up in the ditch.  Exhaustion and stress had taken me over.

I slid to the gravel road, slumped against the car tire, hung my head between my knees. 

I’m not sure how long I stayed that way, but when the roaring of a motorcycle slowed, sputtered, and stopped a dozen feet from me, reality came back.

The driver kicked the stand and dismounted.  He had the look of a serial killer.  Or a joyrider.  Who could predict?

His booted feet thudded toward me.  If he pulled a Smith & Wesson from beneath his untucked tee-shirt, which looked possible, it was of little concern.  Just kill me and get it over with, I thought. 

He eased close enough to talk, but allowed a comfortable distance to remain.  He scratched the heavy whiskers darkening his chin.  He looked left to the mountains, then right to the open field.

“Well, now,” he drew out, words dripping out like honey, his tone very unlike his dangerous appearance.  “Seems like you’re lost or in some kinda trouble.”

He was obviously Texan.  His accent belonged from nowhere else.

“Trouble,” I told him.

“Mm hm,” he murmured, hooking thumbs into back pockets and rocking on his heels.  “Trouble’s a damn unfortunate circumstance.”

“You betcha,” I said, obviously a relocated Midwesterner.  No one says “you betcha” unless you’re from smack dab in the middle of the U.S.A. 

He pushed back his red bandana, giving me a thorough look-over from atop his Aviator sunglasses.  I took him in fully, too.  Mid-thirties.  Sunburned.  Barb wire tattoos circling very large biceps.  Wranglers a bit too tight, but he had nothing to be ashamed of.

“What kinda trouble?”  He asked.

I scrunched up my nose.  Should I tell him the truth?  “I just got a $162 speeding ticket.”

He whistled through his teeth with what could’ve been appreciation.  “Those pigs,” he said, referring to policemen.  “Sonsa bitches, all of ‘em.”

The left side of my mouth lifted, understanding the sentiment.  “And I got laid-off on Tuesday.”

“Damn, lil’ mama.”  He gave a kick to the dusty road to show sympathy.  “Luck ain’t on your side.”

I sighed heavily.  “I thought about vehicular homicide.  For the cop, I mean.”

“I woulda helped burn the body.”

He said it so seriously, but I knew he was joking.  I laughed.

He laughed, too, muscled shoulders moving up and down.  “You know what I do when I’m down and out?”

I was afraid to know the answer, but he supplied it anyway.

“I take a long ride on Miss Harley over there,” he gestured to his bike.  It was a Super Glide.  My mouth watered slightly.  “And all my worries go’on an’ disappear.”

He stepped forward, right in front of me, and held out a hand.  “Take a ride with me, darlin’?” 

I hesitated.  Really, though, what did I have to lose?  And it was a Super Glide.  You can’t simply say “no” to it.  “It’s been a while since I’ve ridden on a motorcycle.”

He grinned, suddenly looking quite sexy.  “The only thing you gotta remember,” he said, words like honey again.  “Is hold on tight.”

I lifted a brow.

“Real tight.”

I smiled.  And I took his hand.

I climbed onto the back of his Harley, feeling a tinge of excitement.  Feeling, just a little bit, like a kid again.  I scooted close so that my thighs hugged his and wrapped my arms around his middle.

“Tighter,” he said.

I obliged.

We blazed forward.  He took the corners fast and we dipped low into the road.  My stomach lurched and I buried my forehead between his shoulder blades.  Connected to this mysterious man, the heat and steel of him dangerous yet comforting, I wasn’t lonely anymore.  My troubles flew away, as promised.  There was nothing except hanging on tight and leaning into the curves.  The scenery zipped by, colors flashing, and I saw, once again, that the world is a beautiful place.  Soon I tilted my head back, way back, until the fire of afternoon burned my face. 

On the back of that rumbling beast of a bike, I became a rebel again.

When the ride was over and he idled next to my car, where we’d left it, I hopped off.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling light and breathless.  And happy.

He winked at me.  “Pleasure’s mine.”  He revved the engine and nodded to my car.  “Drive it like it’s stolen, baby.”

“Shiny side up,” I returned.

Back behind my own (four) wheels, I shook out my knotted hair and examined my sunburn in the rear view mirror.  The face that looked back, lobster-like as it was, had strength and resilience once again.  I refused to let any “sonsa bitches” ruin my day.  Or any lay-off ruin my life.  At any moment, after all, you can fly away on a Harley and escape your troubles long enough to get some perspective.

I’m renewing the Midwestern rebel kid inside of me.  Not be the girl who always got detention, but be the girl who always pops back up.

Go ‘head, do your worst to bring me down.  Throw every obstacle in my way.  Throw me heartbreak.  Throw me uncertainty.  Throw me pain.  And disappointment.  Loneliness.  Hunger.  Fear.

I’ll catch it all willingly.  And keep it close to my hopes.  My dreams.  My desires.  My fantasies of vacationing in Bali .

Nothing will fuel my run toward succeeding faster than being told success is impossible.  Or having everything taken away.  Or being told “no” too many times.

Because, after all, a rebel loves a challenge.