Mind Over Matter

As an adolescent, my living arrangements were determined by where my folks resided. Their home was my home. The bedroom I grew up in was comforting. I call it “my bedroom,” even though it was owned and maintained by Mom and Dad. I had some leeway as to how I could decorate, but I needed approval from both for all major renovations or interior design changes. When I lived there, my parents had control, which meant they could filter out any negative influences or deflect the constant bombardment from the outside world. This enabled me to develop at a nurturing pace. The custodial oversight shrouded me in happiness.

The more I learned from others, the more confidence achieved. I reached the point after high school that the confines of my bedroom felt restrictive. It was time to venture on my own. I packed up the lessons learned for keeping my room tidy and headed off to college. Some material things were left behind, as is always the case when you have too few boxes and too much stuff. The next four years I occupied what amounted to a glorified bedroom but with full exposure to the diversity of society. I took the parts of my childhood bedroom and incorporated them into my dorm room.

After graduating, there was some trepidation, but I knew I had what was needed to continue exploring instead of returning to my parents’ house. So, I set off in search of my first apartment. The one I settled on was expansive compared to my two previous living arrangements. It was a scaled-down version of a real home. There was a kitchen, a small dining nook, a living room and my bedroom with an attached bathroom. After moving in, it became obvious that what I had packed would not fill up my new space. So, I started collecting what I thought was important to have as a freshly minted, independent person.

There was so much I didn’t know I needed. As a child, it was a given that dishes were in the cupboard and silverware in the drawer. The laundry basket was in the closet and the nightstand had a functional light. I had access to tools, a couch and a microwave. Attaining the title of “Grown up” I needed to get my own version of these things.

Being on a tight budget required weekly jaunts to thrift stores and frequenting yard sales. Through perseverance, I managed to find treasures. Like similar-minded, frugal souls, I relied on finding things others were willing to part with, objects that were once held dearly but now being let go so someone else could benefit from their use. I quickly amassed items. Some were gathered spontaneously, some serendipitously. My world grew.

I took in all I could, so my home replicated the comfort I knew as a child but now viewed from an adult perspective. Not all my possessions were practical. I felt it was important to buy a rice cooker. Despite my parents considering this purchase as “wasted money,” I bought one. I felt it was a smart investment. Never had one before. Don’t ever recall any family member ever owning one.

Instant rice was a staple in my family. I ate it during many a meal. But now, after emerging from my childhood phase, I felt the next logical step in the journey towards maturity was having a rice cooker. So, I paid full price for a top-of-the-line model.

Once I unboxed it, I couldn’t wait to take it for a spin. Upon reading all the warnings and instructions, come to find out, it requires ten minutes to cook rice (twenty if you’re using brown rice). My childhood staple, Minute Rice, as the name implies, only required a minute. Considering myself a mover and a shaker, I don’t have the time nor the patience to wait ten minutes. I had places to go and life to experience. I put it back in the box. I’ll use it at a later date.

My new girlfriend moved in; under the assumption she’d live rent free for the entirety of our relationship. Trying to impress her with my culinary skills, I offered to make dinner. As I demonstratively began taking the lid off my rice cooker, she interjected that she’s not big on rice. (That’s strange. I hadn’t noticed her holding that red flag before.) She prefers couscous.

Not wanting to miss an opportunity to showcase my rapier-like wit, I replied, “The only time I ate couscous was as a side dish for my grilled mahi-mahi that I had ordered while vacationing in Bora Bora and listening to Duran Duran accompanied by Yo Yo Ma sing their cover version of New York, New York.” She looked at me as if I had contracted beriberi. She moved out soon after, so I was free to continue not using my rice cooker without judgement. From that point forward, I became selective on who I allowed in my apartment.

When I gained financial traction, I took the leap to being a homeowner. I got my first place. Now I was responsible for all the working of a house, both inside and outside. No longer would I be able to call the leasing office when there was a drip in the sink or a stain on the ceiling. Life involved maintaining a yard, gutters and driveway. I had seen my parents handle these tasks. I watched as they executed the daily responsibilities from living in a house.

Having my own home was empowering. I realized that it wasn’t a daunting undertaking. I parlayed the knowledge gained from my parents’ role modeling with the experience of living in an apartment to overcome any challenges that might arise. I felt I no longer didn’t know what I didn’t know.

A bigger abode requires more items. The possessions that filled my apartment were now spread out thin in a structure five times larger. Using my bargain-finding expertise, I went about getting more things to make my home feel like a home. My rice cooker was stored in the cabinet next to the dishwasher.

Now it’s time to downsize. The house hasn’t changed in dimensions, but it feels too big. I’ve got to jettison what’s no longer important and refocus on what is. Things that have served their purpose will be passed on to the younger members of my family as they begin their journey of independence. Unwanted or unneeded items will be put in a yard sale. I’ll ask five dollars for my virginal rice cooker. A great bargain for someone just starting out.