Great things come in small packages, or so I have been told. The thought of de-junking, simplifying and compacting my life into 300 square feet of functional living space decorated to the standards of Pinterest appeals to my heart in ways I can’t even describe. I already share space with my two cats in a tiny studio apartment, so moving into a tiny home is basically the same thing. Well, except that my studio is triple the square footage of the average tiny home, I have a bathroom that doesn’t double as a kitchen and my home is stationary. So there’s that.
But tiny homes have such a kitschy appeal; they are essentially the antithesis of McMansions and materialism. Their tiny space packs a serious punch compared to our mainstream culture of hedonism and waste. Tiny homes are like a livable, middle-finger statement to Utah’s sea of 5,000-square-feet Ivory Homes. They are the quintessence of residential Wabi-sabi minimalism, and I want one — I think.
My heart usually wins out over my mind, so even though my heart basically prompted me to think of 500 different ways I could justify the $20,000-$100,000+ price tag, there are certainly some substantial, practical considerations to be made when it comes to moving into a tiny home. First and foremost, if you have a tiny home, you have to obtain a permit to place your tiny home on your property due to zoning regulations, and these permits are difficult to attain. The only way to skirt the zoning regulations is if your tiny home is on wheels (and considered an RV in the land of governmental regulation), or if the home is considered an accessory dwelling unit. So you can either build a stationary home behind someone’s house or keep it mobile; but if your dreams are similar to mine, and you envision your tiny home on the front of some lake in remote wilderness, we can lament together over our crushed dreams.
In addition, because most tiny homes are considered recreational vehicles, they also come with similar pains of RV living: They are generally not independently powered (they require a plug-in source or generator) and there is a bathroom situation. By bathroom situation, I mean I could probably dedicate a whole article to the bathroom situation. Not only will everyone in your 120- to 400-square-foot home know you ate Mexican food the night before, but your toilet options are dry-flush, composting or incinerator toilets, most of which require power. There is also the “poop into a bucket and cover it with sawdust” method, which got me thinking, I could conserve space in my tiny home if me and my cats and myself all used the same toilet! Genius. Oh, I should probably also note, for the record, that none of these methods guarantee the riddance of odors.
The most obvious concern to owning a tiny home is WHERE DO YOU PUT YOUR S**T? I love the idea of downsizing, but where do you hide your stuff in 120-500 square feet? Do the stylish tiny homes popping up on Buzzfeed and Pinterest have staircases that turn into hidden rooms or something? How on earth do more than two people sharing 250 square feet of livable space find places to stash their clothes? Do you both just share the same pair of Chacos and overalls? What happens if you have a tent and a ton of ourdoorsy gear? I need to know these answers! I may be (see: definitely) stereotyping here, but I’m willing to bet people that have tiny homes have camping stuff! Where does it go?
Although I daydream of living in a tiny home so whimsical even Wes Anderson would be jealous, there is a practical side of me that really wonders if the price tag and hype are worth the investment. Perhaps a more practical approach would be to invest in a Net Zero (energy neutral) home with a little more space for my outdoor gear and a bathroom that my cats and I wouldn’t have to share.