Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo? Who’s Afraid of Marie Kondo?

Alice Hassler

I am.

Marie Kondo, the presumably polite petite pixie, and glorified Goddess of Tidying has waved her mother-of pearl inlayed wand from somewhere in her pristine, white-walled fairy lair and maliciously enchanted my best friend. *Faith has been cultivated and is now a KonMari Certified “Conjurer of Joyful Cleaning” – I mean Consultant. (It’s a real thing.)

Faith seems forever lost in the barren, minimalist land of that which “sparks joy.” I’ve been com pelled to curtail visiting her (pre viously colorful) home, where we once washed our manic, messy, lunatic lady-selves in healthy amounts of chardonnay (with ice - menopause style), and shared hysterical, sarcastic stories about purpose-filling careers, parenting our gifted (aren’t they all?) bright boys, and the confounding chronicles of copulation within middle-aged marriages. Our laughter used to “spark joy”- now it’s her closet.

Sigh.

Faith is obligated, by KonMari contract I suspect, to reveal The Closet at every encounter. The ceremonial unveiling of the wardrobe ritual always begins with lighting a white candle (lilac) that has been precisely positioned on a wittle-bitty brass pedestal, placed a safe distance outside of the prodigious curtains leading to her storeroom of spells: her clothes are alive! (You know, because of The Wand. I imagine her clothes dance and sing à la Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” when no one is around. Mrs. Potts has nothing on Faith’s magenta floral cardigan. That cardigan is a trained opera singer - I just know.) Only then can the bland linen (neutrals abound) drapes divide. Abracadabra! Open Sesame! I cannot consume enough Menopause Wine to endure the performance.

I won’t subject you to the details of beholding her meticulously rolled tights and underwear, the charmed boxes filled with the precise number of jewels to be adored. I respectfully decline.

As I linger in bed with my computer (and some books, a surplus of journals, and two cats), I realize that I’m currently overly caffeinated and shall seek food to soak up the bile that is bubbling up while I contemplate rolling my panties. Please enjoy the expedition to my kitchen:

Let’s exit the bedroom. Step over laundry piles separated into whites and colors. I sorted them three days ago? They are attempting reunification.

Enter my hallway. It is narrower now because I merrily purged my teenager’s room, therefore his texts on the left, with a plethora of papers heaped in between. The revelatory mayhem welcomes me like a cloud-covered day, whispering to me it’s okay to stay inside and play. bookshelves line one side of the corridor. My son doesn’t want the incommodious shelves returned to his room as then he wouldn’t have space to play virtual reality games with his pubescent barbaric “crew.” So, the shelves have been there for a month? (Okay, two.) Perhaps I’ll relocate them to my corner art studio, the one I set up in what had once been our sparse dining room but was transformed into storage – I mean an office, by my metal-hoarding husband. (Yes, also a thing and another story. I’ve accepted it because he’s accepted my book piling propensity – reluctantly, for us both. We’re good.)

We’re almost to the kitchen! Before we get there, please pause to admire the batik serape draped chair supporting my jewelry supplies piled in boxes overflowing with supple silk mala tassels, cooling stone beads, hypnotizing crystals, and silver guru talismans. Joy sparked!

Pass the organ that was bequeathed by Grandma (dead for ten years) that no one plays. I’ve covered it in a lovely hunter green tablecloth. It works well as a mail organizer. I should go through that stack.

Behold the living area. Notice said book piles blanketing the room. Library books on the right side of the sectional (they make for a nice side table), novels, poetry, and online writing group

Kitchen, finally. What to eat? Bananas!

Where was I? Ah yes, darling Marie. I’m probably envious. Perhaps I feel guilty, or less than … normal? I’ve always been this way: creative. I need my stuff. It needs to beckon me. I dream of a warehouse: a boundless space lined with the beguiling, reflective relics of my life. Maybe if I had that, then I could get organized – get my timeline right. For now, I’ll lay back and contemplate. My mirrored closet doors are open wide, permitting me to visually frolic in the festive colors and textures I’ve collected over a lifetime of life affirming discovery. (Hum…I think. Maybe we just need a bigger house?)

*Faith is not my friend’s real name. I suspect I should be protecting mine! ⇦ ⇦ ⇦