Living With a Non-Minimalist

I’m a very tidy person.  In addition to my passion for getting rid of stuff, I like having a little place for each of my things to go.  I like to restore my apartment to the point where all of my little riff-raff is put away and, most importantly, hidden.  I have one shelf on our living room bookshelves for my mini-office.  I keep my current notebooks and bullet journal at one end with a tiny Japanese teacup that holds one of my 3 pens (yes, I only have 3- one for my purse, one for my bedside, and one here).  I have about a dozen books for reading and reference, a wooden box of tarot cards, a picture frame with photos of my grandmother in her youth in a bikini.  I have less frequently-used notebooks tucked in at the far end along with a couple of folders with plastic sleeves where I keep magazine tear-outs or poems scribbled on scraps of paper.  And this is really everything I need.  It’s all tucked away on one little shelf and I love it that way. 

My husband has a drastically different system. The remaining 8 bookshelves are filled with his books, just a selection from the large collection he keeps in his office. Speaking of his office, I often lament its unbearable disarray, but in his eyes it’s functional and he knows where everything is. This seems to be a common claim from less-than-tidy people- that they know where everything is within the mess. But in this case I believe it’s actually true. The only times things get confusing are when I try to “help” get him organized; that’s when things tend to get lost. Aside from that though, there is just the occasional misplacing of a wallet or pair of headphones, or any frequently used item that leaves the house on a regular basis. And truly, my husband’s book collection is essential to his work- but it doesn’t make it any easier for me to live with. I can’t shake the fantasy of a life where items are returned to drawers and not strewn around on the counter or nightstand. I designate drawers in every room specifically for his things, hoping he’ll make use of them. But he forgets what’s in the drawers and then forgets to do things, like take his vitamins or finish reading a New Yorker. I periodically (pun intended) sort through his magazines with him, asking if any can be recycled or if he still plans to read them (he kindly humors me). And yet his nightstand is always overflowing despite the three large drawers it contains. (I myself have a tiny table with no drawers and a small felt bin underneath where I keep a pen, a weighted eye mask, a coaster, and sometimes my headphones. On the table is a box of tissues and sometimes my phone.) Aside from the magazines and books and toiletries that must be on the sink top in order to be found, there is the kitchen collection of appliances and gadgets which are rarely, if ever, used- probably because I insist on storing them away, and for Matt, out of sight is out of mind. For an enthusiastic minimalist like myself, there are days when I feel like I’m living in chaos. Everywhere I turn, I see little piles of stuff that seem to appear out of nowhere and then multiply. The meticulous care and thought I’ve put into arranging my things for the good of having a clean, impeccably tidy home feels wholly unreciprocated by my husband. Some part of me feels offended that the state of things can’t change. This is especially hard when I imagine that a tidier home would help the symptoms of my mental illness; whether this is true, I doubt greatly. But the real issue is that I’m not the only person to consider here; my husband is a person, too. He deserves to feel comfortable in our home without being constantly vigilant in hiding away his belongings. It’s easy enough for me to tidy things up if guests arrive, so when it’s just us, I have to concede to Matt on this one. So much of our life revolves around my needs, my problems. Matt has to rush to my side when my mood plummets, he has to tiptoe around my feelings with certain issues, and he is constantly vigilant of my needs and wishes. And so tidiness is one area where I must surrender constant control. I can at the very least let him decide for himself what goes on his nightstand, how many books he wants to own, or whether to keep the dream of breadmaking alive. Because while I may want to be a minimalist, I can’t become so obsessed as to interfere with him living his life. Now I have made efforts to convert him, and he’s let some things go. But the truth is, it’s not in his nature to live a stark, rigidly ordered existence. His organizing style may not please me aesthetically, but it does allow him to be incredibly creative and effective in his work and otherwise. So I take a deep breath, hold back my controlling nature, and try to focus on my own stuff, material or otherwise. I truly want a happy home, and if this helps achieve that end, I’m more than willing to oblige.