Filmmaker Sarah Polley tweeted: “She admits she has ‘kind of given up’ on tidying after three kids. The next morning, however, I discovered that Kondo had gotten women talking. She’s dealing with the operatic wail of a meltdown because someone’s beloved Dino isn’t exactly where he left it, meaning the entire world will crumble. As a mom of a two-and-a-half-year-old and a 10-month-old, it seemed perfectly obvious that the poor woman no longer has time to fold her underwear into neat rosette-studded envelopes. Not quite a Disney villain cackle of glee, but more a smug, adrenalin rush of vindication.Īt first, I didn’t bother to click and read the actual article. Timeliness aside, consider me a Konvert.I will admit that when I read the New York Post headline: “Queen of spring-cleaning has given up on being tidy: ‘My home is messy’” over a photo of Marie Kondo, it sparked joy. Umm, has Kondo ever seen The Devil Wears Prada? Taking a week off to KonMari my apartment is not happening anytime soon. Kondo encourages a tidying “festival” done in one fell swoop rather than bits and pieces at a time. So far I’ve only gotten through my clothing, but I plan to work my way through the other four categories as quickly as possible. The monarchy is dead in this lingerie drawer. they have exceptional pride and emit a distinctive aura.” Sorry, bras, but I’m really just concerned that you don’t emit a distinctive odor. Kondo proudly maintains a zero recidivism rate, and I feel compelled not to be the delinquent who derails that record, but there will be some dictums I don’t totally act upon or agree with-for example, Kondo’s instructive to “treat your bras like royalty. Two weeks later my workout clothes are still neatly folded, but my underwear-which Kondo advises folding in neat little origami packets and organizing from light to dark colors-have regressed to a pile of rosette-appointed cotton rubble. Once all my discards have been made, Kondo shows me how to fold my remaining clothing so that they stand up like little toy soldiers at attention. After them, in went the Stella McCartney red satin sandals I was so proud of snagging at a sample sale but never wear because they are a half size too small, followed by the cashmere Isabel Marant sweater-vest that seems too soft and practical to part with but really sparks no joy and has been stuck inside the wardrobe longer than Tilda Swinton’s White Witch. At 20, that’s okay, but now they are a perfect illustration of why the French name for bell-bottoms is “ patte d’elephant”: They really do make my legs look like elephant feet and that brings no one joy. Unfortunately, the jeans are terribly unflattering. It was joined by a fabulous pair of ultra-high-waisted Earnest Sewn bell-bottoms that brought back wonderful memories of lounging around on the main green during college. So I thanked the dress and wished it farewell and into the bowels of the Glad extra-large trash bag it went, destined for donation. Furthermore, its handkerchief hem meant I wouldn’t be caught dead in it now. So it’s not like a pristine memory was being preserved. For example, why was I keeping the sage green lace BCBG dress I wore to my high school boyfriend’s prom? It wasn’t even my prom-for my own prom, my mom and I found a gorgeous beaded 1920s dress at the Clignancourt Marché aux Puces that continues to bring me extreme joy- and he had just cheated on me during his spring break trip to Paradise Island. However, Kondo’s way of anthropomorphizing belongings and paying them the respect of taking them out of the closet for a proper dismissal makes a big difference. The cyclical purging of things you no longer use is not a new phenomenon.
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