Honey, I shrunk our lives

Nine months ago I bought a refrigerator that barely fit through the door. Now I'm the one who barely fits. Through the door, obviously — because in my new refrigerator, not even my 11-year-old self would fit. And calling it "new" is generous. Let's just call it my current refrigerator. Just like my current dryer, and my current washer — the one that smells like freshly burnt toast every time I pull the laundry out of the drum.

Then I remembered the Think Small 1959 campaign and felt a little lucky about cleaning a table for two instead of an almost empty six-chair table. Exactly the same happens when I think about my fully furnished old guest room — now nonexistent, but with the possibility of adding an inflatable mattress right in the middle of my kitchen-dining-living room.

I mean, less stuff also means fewer things to worry about, right? Less to clean, less to occupy, less to fill with useless things. Shrinking isn't that bad when it means being closer to your loved ones — my dog certainly doesn't care about square footage when he's lying on the floor licking his paws.

And maybe that's the point. That's why Honey, I Shrunk the Kids is a comedy instead of a tragedy — because you just need to embrace your life changes with enough wisdom and keep moving through the plot until that great moment of resolution, hopefully, with a few laughs along the way.

For sure, the main difference in my case is that everything that happens in a 120-minute movie, I'll be living it for at least a couple of years. But let's trust the process and enjoy it. Even if we can't decide everything that happens to us — whether we're shrunk literally or metaphorically — we can decide how we want to take it.

So wish me luck. But not in small amounts.