I stood on the front step of my house and closed the storm door behind me to greet these visitors. I was not about to let them in without a warning.

"You might get the shakes," I said. Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus, both 32, are the authors of "Everything That Remains: A Memoir by the Minimalists," the story of their path to living with less -- much less.

My house was in the middle of a major renovation project, so the entire contents of my kitchen were piled in the dining room and basement, with a makeshift eating area in the family room. It was the most antithetical display to minimalism that I could imagine.

We've seen worse, they assured me. We've lived worse, they said.

Cautiously, I allowed them in.

Both of them, childhood friends from Dayton, Ohio, quit six-figure jobs nearly four years ago and got rid of most of their fancy possessions in the quest to live happier, more fulfilling lives. They were recently in St. Louis as part of a 100-city tour promoting their latest book.

So, how's this new way of life working out?

"I really don't have anything I miss," Nicodemus said.

"There's nothing I couldn't replace right now," Millburn added.

They had been working 60 to 80 hours a week in corporate jobs. Now, they write, blog, speak, are making a documentary and have started their own press. They say they are physically, mentally and financially better off.

Millburn realized this when his mother died the same month as his marriage ended in 2009. He had to deal with his mother's 65 years' worth of accumulated things. At first, he wanted to box everything and put it in storage. But then he realized that she was not in her "stuff." He took pictures of the things that mattered to him and got rid of it all.

"I was so tied to my things emotionally," Millburn said. "Our possessions can be triggers to memories, but we can set up other triggers."

He applied the same principle to his own life.

"I was using the past as a weapon to batter my present self," Millburn said.

Nicodemus noticed how much happier Millburn seemed soon after this difficult time and asked how he was managing.

"Do they have you on Prozac?" he asked. His friend told him he had discovered minimalism. It appealed to Nicodemus. "I think the material possessions in my life were a physical manifestation of internal clutter," he said.

Both men had a realization that the things that matter most -- health, relationships, giving, writing -- got the least of their time.

It's a message that has resonated strongly with their millions of readers. "We are shifting from a culture of consumption or ownership to a culture of access," Nicodemus said. You don't have to own something to appreciate it. Books, music, art, memories can all be stored in a cloud.

"Since the economy crashed, people have been reawakened. They are not buying into the ideology that you have to consume to be happy," Nicodemus said.

"People are experiencing a lot of discontent, with either their finances or time. I didn't feel like I had control of my finances or time," Millburn said.

In that old life, Nicodemus said, "we had $6,000 worth of shoes between the two of us."

Today, there are rules they live by.

"If I haven't used something in 90 days, I will seriously consider whether I need to live with it," Nicodemus said. "I am constantly asking the question: Does this thing bring me joy or is it adding value to my life?"

He also doesn't have a TV. "I would watch it all the time," he said.

Readers often share their own techniques for keeping excess stuff at bay. A mother of young children told them that she keeps a "one in, one out" rule for any new toy her children want.

For these two, the books and blog are not about converting anyone else to a lifestyle that works for them, but about sharing ideas that may be useful to others.

"Ultimately, this journey is about you. When other people in your life see the benefits, they are compelled to take action in their own lives," Millburn said.

In my case, the most common hurdles I've faced in getting rid of things are the sentimental attachment, the possibility of future use, and the genuine joy that can come from infrequently used but beautiful items.

"There were three words I had a very intimate relationship with: just in case," Millburn said.

We hang on to things: just in case.

They pose a challenge on their website, TheMinimalists.com, in which you find a a friend or family member willing to get rid of some excess stuff. Each person gets rid of one thing on the first day of the month. On the second day, two things. Three items on the third. So forth and so on. The items can be clothes, furniture, electronics, tools, decorations, anything. You can donate, sell or trash them.

Whoever can keep it going the longest wins. You both win if you can make it all month.

For those doing the math, you end up with 496 fewer items by the end of a 31-day month. Their visit inspired me to start this challenge, and I've already shed 100 excess items.

It's a useful reminder of how easily less can seem like more.

Jackson Judd knew months before he asked his date to prom that his invitation was going to be over-the-top -- literally.

The senior at Mary Institute Country Day School earned his pilot's license when he was 17 and had set sky-high expectations the previous year: He'd taken his girlfriend, Abby Desai, to fly with him last spring and had her read the flight checklist aloud.

Judd had inserted "Will you go to prom with me?" as one of the instructions.

"The promposal has turned into such a big deal," he said. "There's totally a one-upsmanship."

After that first successful run, Judd took note of which promposals his girlfriend admired on Instagram. She seemed to appreciate one in which a boy had spelled out "prom" in lights on his date's front lawn.

He got the idea of spelling out "Prom?" on a field and flying over it with her.

The simple idea required some complex planning.

First, he looked up sizing for plastic sheeting he could use to make the message. Then he figured out how much he would need to create the display by drawing a grid. He bought 600 feet of black plastic sheeting from Home Depot and cut the strips in his basement.

He found a friend who had a family farm near Hermann, Mo., about 75 miles from St. Louis. Judd checked the forecast for two clear days, and drove out to the field to set it up. He held the plastic sheeting in place with firewood from the farm. The four letters and a question mark covered an area about the size of a football field. It would be visible from 4,000 feet in the air.

Desai didn't suspect a thing when Judd asked her to go flying with him two weeks before the big dance. They headed west, and for 15 minutes, Judd flew around trying to figure out exactly where he had laid out the tarp. He finally found the right field, tilted the plane wing down and flew by it for Desai to see.

"I was shocked," Desai said. "I never expected something so huge ... I was amazed he would make that much effort. I was over-the-moon happy."

Mission accomplished, Judd.

"I know I beat my personal best," he said, "but I wouldn't say I'm the king of promposals."

The couple, who have been dating for a year and a half, attended their prom earlier this month, and both reported having a fabulous time.

The first thing Desai's father said when he heard about Judd's promposal was: "Is your marriage proposal going to seem really lame compared to prom?"

The generation that has popularized a new tradition of asking a prom date in a big way -- and, of course, sharing that experience through social media -- may not hear another proposal for at least a decade after.

The median age for a first marriage has risen by six years during the past two generations. Nearly 60 percent of adults ages 18 to 29 were married in 1960. Now, it's 20 percent in that age group. The process of finding that life partner has also evolved for a sizable number of young people.

For millenials, dating, in its traditional sense, hardly exists. Interested singles are more likely to hang out than dress up and go on a dinner date. There are growing doubts in this cohort about monogamy. While fewer teens are sexually active now than in the '80s, the ones who are active are more likely to experience a fluid, hook-up culture.

Yet the vast majority of college students report a desire to get married one day. The Pinterest popularity of anything wedding-related remains strong.

So, if the fantasy still exists but the reality seems unlikely in the near future, why not create a bridge? Many modern prom rituals, from the professional photographer to the designer dress, resemble a wedding day. Costs and expectations keep escalating.

Some may criticize the promposal as a yet another narcissistic display by a generation that constantly needs to broadcast and be reassured that they are special.

But the promposal may also tap into another impulse: It may be a grand, romantic gesture by a generation holding on to a bit of innocence about what it means to be a loved in a commitment-phobic era. Even if there is an element of competition, going to the trouble to plan and execute a sweet surprise for someone is thoughtful and memorable.

It's useful to bear in mind, however, that no one should want the best night of their life to unfold in high school.

Kind of a bummer for the next 60 years if it was.

CAPTION 01: Jackson Judd created a football field-sized "promposal" for girlfriend Abby Desai.

The mom felt as nervous picking up the phone as if she had been transported back to middle school and was calling a hot crush.

Was she overstepping? Would she sound like a freak for asking such questions?

But she called and had the potentially awkward conversation anyway. Her social butterfly tween daughter had been invited to a sleepover, and she barely knew the parents. She wasn't comfortable sending her daughter, but she also didn't relish being the bad guy -- the only parent who says no.

Sleepovers, long seen as a childhood rite of passage, are under renewed scrutiny by parents weighing the risks. Even the smartest and best-raised children make stupid mistakes. It's part of growing up. But the consequences of a small lapse in judgment -- much more likely in a group-think gaggle -- seem much greater than they once were.

This mom wanted to know what kind of rules the other parents would enforce about cellphones and Internet use during the sleepover. What happens if smartphones come out late at night, and the girls start taking selfies? YouTube is littered with questionable videos taken at tween- or teen-aged sleepovers.

The hosting mother said she keeps tabs on what her daughter does, but she couldn't control what the other girls might do.

This isn't the only sensitive topic that can come up in a conversation about a child spending the night away from home. There are the concerns that have always been around: Who else will be in the house? How will siblings, other relatives and friends interact with the guests? Are there guns in the house? Will they be locked away while children are over?

In an era of two-working-parent households, fewer people know their neighbors, and families are more mobile than ever. Odds are good that your child will have a friend whose parents you know superficially, at best.

These kinds of personal questions are difficult to ask, but the etiquette of sleepover permission-granting has changed. It's not rude to ask hosting parents how they would handle certain situations.

We have a pretty high bar for houses where our children are allowed to sleep over. When my 9-year-old son was invited to spend the night for a friend's birthday party, the hosting mom messaged me to see if I had any questions. We've known the family socially for years, and I knew nearly all of the children who would be attending.

Still, I was hesitant. She said she is reluctant about sleepovers, too, and volunteered answers to concerns she would have if she were in my position: There would be no other adults in the house other than her and her husband; they didn't own any guns; they planned to keep watch to make sure no child was being left out or bullied.

Hearing her articulate the same sorts of concerns reassured me.

We can't bubble-wrap our children and protect them from every conceivable risk in the world. But there's the mental calculation we do each time: Is the benefit to my child worth the risk?

There's a contingent of parents who impose an outright ban on all sleepovers, and a laissez-faire crowd who allow almost every request. For those in the middle, we should not be afraid to ask questions, nor should we be offended if we are asked in return.

The mom who made the original phone call to ask about technology use said the conversation prompted her to come up with a rule when she hosts sleepovers. She lets the guests know they need to check their tablets and phones at the door when they arrive, so there are no opportunities for impulsive selfies and texting.