The Tale of Eight Tape Measures

I like to give my hubs grief about his tape measures.

I mentioned them in Before Kondo Was Cool. Years ago, when my hubs and I used Marie Kondo’s KonMari method of tidying to go through the tools in the garage, we uncovered no less than eight tape measures.

How does one acquire eight tape measures? The same way one acquires anything. The first probably came from Dad’s garage, the second from a toolkit an uncle gave him for Christmas, the third also from Dad’s garage when he couldn’t find the first two. Another might’ve been part of an office gift exchange since tools are that easy gift that everyone needs but no one wants, another because it was on sale—because you never know when you’ll need another one—and yet another came free with a power tool purchase at Menards. The seventh was from his grandpa’s old toolbox that his dad thought he’d like to keep in Grandpa’s memory, and the eighth was nearly free in a Harbor Freight special.

And voila—eight tape measures!

I stared at the pile in disbelief and felt our foundation crumble. How was I ever going to be a minimalist if my husband was harboring eight tape measures? We weren’t even on the same planet, let alone on the same page anymore.

But then my hubs did something amazing. He got rid of six of them.

Two tape measures of eight remained.

My jaw hit the concrete floor. Maybe we weren’t on different planets; maybe he was beginning to see the joy of only keeping what we needed. Maybe we’d make it after all.

As I felt my tiny house dreams coming into focus, I stifled my excitement behind a calm façade so as not to scare him away. The deer was eating from my hand; this was no time to reach out and touch it. Be still and savor the majesty of the experience…

…It should come as no surprise that I’m not getting my tiny house any time soon. While my hubs parted with six of his tape measures, enough tools and supplies remained in the garage to require many new shelves to organize it all. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: my husband is not a minimalist.

But he’s trying—of which he is quick to remind me. I should also clarify that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with his preferences. He’s not a hoarder, and we have more than enough space to store any treasure he wants to keep. The only reason he gets flack is because he married a woman who took one look at his closet literally jam packed with clothes, much of it outdated, out-sized, or still with the tags on, and said, “We can’t have this.” Several garbage bags of apparel bound for the nearest thrift store was the first step in clearing the clutter from our newly-combined lives.

While my hubs may never be the guy who gets rid of all his power tools to rent them when he needs them—which apparently is a real thing—he will pause before buying a new skill saw to see if he can borrow one from a friend first. Though he is keener on bringing more “stuff” into our home than I am (more and more of his late grandmother’s decorations and cookware keep showing up on our doorstep) he will listen to the Minimalist’s podcast and has even expressed interest in seeing them in person. This is how we meet each other half way.

And when one is a minimalist and one is not, that’s all a couple can really do.

So thanks honey. Thanks for going through your dresser when I literally can’t fit anything else inside of it, getting rid of at least some of the tangled cords in the cupboard, and not yelling at me when I ask you for help KonMari-ing the kitchen—again.