Tiny Imperfections

For the past month or so, this article about tiny houses has been making the rounds; so far it's been shared thousands of times. If you haven't read it, I invite you to. It's a witty satire decrying the saccharine image of the tiny house movement.

In other words, she doesn't buy the impossibly perfect life we put forward.

"You just want to live out your life like a Wes Anderson character, don’t you? You want to be some eccentric full of whimsy who doesn’t need modern tools or resources to live a fulfilling life."

I read it, and you know what? I laughed. If you're bold enough to call out one of the most popular, powerful design movements today via the calculated application of atomic fart jokes, I applaud you. Some people took it personally, ran to their social media outlets of choice and lambasted this woman for speaking her mind. Others saw it as an opportune moment to publicly affirm that they think we and our tiny houses are just hipster nonsense.

A tiny lifestyle is still someone's life

All the things she implied about us being squeaky clean and green and being one miniature milk glass vase away from dying of happiness: those things are kind of true. But you know what? Those things are also wonderful.

Choosing this life isn't like getting into Hogwarts; there's no selection or sorting process for people to know they're ideal candidates for it. That's because all manner of people can, and have chosen to give this exciting, often challenging lifestyle a go, and made it work.

There's no space for mess

Yes, our houses look pruned to perfection in magazines and blogs - but it's because we don't have the luxury of clutter. It's as simple as that.

Are we happier than most people you pass on the street? I think so. We're not buckling under the crushing weight of an invisible debt bubble like a lot of people. We're not working 60 hour weeks to buy stuff because, hey! We have no room for stuff. Guess I'll spend that money on the hipster, locally-brewed craft beer I so dearly cleave to.

Poop (and burrito farts)

To address the other more - ahem - delicate queries posed in the article, I'd like to quote Jurassic Park: "Life, uh, finds a way." (no, not "That is one big pile of shit") If you're a parent, I'm sure you remember the challenge children presented to your Nighttime Grownup Dance Parties, but I bet you found a way.

Barely surviving all the Mexican food hotbox farts

Poop is poop. It happens. Sh*t literally happens. If my spouse wasn't someone I felt supremely comfortable with in any situation, I'd really have to reconsider that relationship. I know this isn't a sentiment shared by everyone, and that's ok. Don't get me wrong - it's not like Andrew and I sit and discuss our hopes and dreams with each other every time one of us is in the bathroom. But we don't pretend like it isn't happening, either.

It's different, but not that different

How do we achieve that state of zen you see in all of our blogs and photo shoots? How is tiny house homicide not a thing? Not to get all Pocahontas on you, but have you painted all the colors of the wind? In my experience Western consumer culture promotes relaxation through binge-watching our favorite shows, playing video games for hours on end, scrolling through Facebook until our butts go numb. I'm guilty of those things. I love binge-watching. However, my hope is that this breathtaking, lakeside green space I live in is enough to seduce me outside when I feel the occasional tingle of annoyance or stress.

Those things don't go away with the purchase of your adorably tiny house. The emotional problems you had before will still be there, lurking in your tiny kitchen or your tiny Murphy bed.

That's because people who live in tiny houses are still real, live people with complex personalities and emotional landscapes. We just tend to photograph well.