sparkoluminescence

Marie Kondo Stole My Clothes and My Husband

Me and Hugh Hefner have robes but our similarities end there

“The best way to choose what to keep and what to throw away is to take each item in one’s hand and ask: “Does this spark joy?” If it does, keep it. — Marie Kondo

Marie Kondo nagged at me until my closet was empty. Almost none of my attire sparked joy. My absence of clothes hadn’t mattered during most of COVID, but I was going out again. I needed to get dressed.

Marie stuff-loathing-magic-of-making-your-stuff-disappear Kondo bullied me into getting rid of everything that didn’t spark joy. Joy! I laugh at that word now. Joy! That beast as elusive as the unicorn, the dragon, the merman, and the vegan Happy Meal. Why had I believed I could lasso her?

I’m an optimistic person to the core. My joy is sparked at the right times, the wrong times, and the in-between times. She’s easy.

When I was younger, this made people think I liked them more than I actually did. I was also overly enthusiastic about gifts, causing people to buy me collections of objects I initially over-reacted to. Joy was problematic for me.

I developed an allergy to not showing joy. Claritin didn’t work. Benedryl put me to sleep. Whenever I felt unjoyful, I broke out in hives. Topical hive cream was a placebo. Witches' spells fizzled out in the cauldron.

Hypnosis laughed hypnotically in my face like a hyena. Dead Freud told me I had a case of vaginal overenthusiasm. Joseph Campbell directed me to remove several thousand masks before I got within an inch of my genuine joy face. Fake joy was the only thing that cleared up my hives. If I acted perky enough, my hives vanished.

That’s some fucked up shit, my therapist said.

Remember Julia Roberts in The Runaway Bride? If you don’t remember that scene because you hated that movie, didn’t see it, or this scene didn’t resonate with you, see below clip—

I was Julia Roberts in that movie. I had no idea what kind of eggs, sweaters, men, bathroom tile, music, or sandwich I liked. When I did like something, it was fleeting. The contents of my closet exhibited my fickleness. Banana Republic suits, denim jumpers, orange tutus, and yoga leisure wear. Who was I?

Then, I invited Marie Kondo into my house. Well, I didn’t. She was sent over by the clutter Gods, those nitpicky bureaucrats that have nothing better to do in heaven than line up crayons and judge the closets of the living.

Pathologically organized Marie Kondo showed up at my door like a Jehovah’s Witness telling me if I didn’t get rid of my shit I was going to spend eternity in a musky thrift shop or a landfill in the Midwest — Hell.

She tore through my house like a ravenous goat devouring anything that didn’t spark joy. Then, she put a spell on me. I could still lie about liking runny eggs but I couldn’t lie about loving an ill-shaped t-shirt.

I couldn’t fake sparks to save my clothes. She made me like Jim Carey in Liar Liar with my wardrobe.

I couldn’t put on a dress and pretend it fit me. I couldn’t say those mom jeans made me feel pretty. I had to admit I’d never find those missing socks. I had to admit certain underwear resembled roadkill, not lingerie.

The missing sparks were ravaging my wardrobe and leaving me with nothing but my robe collection. I’m not Hugh Hefner, but I have ten robes and they all sparked joy.

If I lived on an estate, never had to see anyone, never had to walk my dog, or go to the grocery store, I’d live in those robes. Robes are the only clothing in my wardrobe that surround me with sparkoluminescence — the kind of joy so strong it can illuminate luggage. See below.

After Marie Kondo finished eradicating my clothing, she moved on to my people. She told me people who did not spark joy also had to go.

She made me take everyone I knew out of my closet and set them on my bed — my friends, family, children, and my spouse all sat patiently, wondering what they were doing there. Was this an EST meeting?

She lifted up my kids first. They were fighting over who thought I was crazier. I sent them on their way.

She lifted up my husband like he weighed as much as a shirt. I was pissed at him that day. That morning, he had left 18 black mismatched socks around the living room, a bowl of hummus that had cemented to the bowl in the kitchen, and had forgotten to walk the dog so she shit in the hallway. He didn’t spark joy that day. Out he went.

Then, I looked at my family. Families are complicated. There’s joy, but it doesn’t always spark. I bid them farewell.

Then she plucked up some friends I’ve always felt ‘meh’ about and nothing came off of them — not even static cling. Definitely no spark. I waved ba-bye.

Everything was gone. My black pants, mom jeans, my kids, skinny jeans, overalls, weird-colored dresses, shoulder-padded blazers, tutus, sweaters that didn’t compliment my skin tone or eye color, my husband, and a lot of people I’d known my whole life.

Now, I’ve got nothing. No relatives, no husband, no clothing, no kids, no mediocre friends. I‘ve got robes. I’ve got so many robes. I’ve got joy shooting out of my robe holes.

Marie Kondo is a genius, but I don’t like her. She doesn’t spark shit when I hold her out in front of me. She makes me feel bad about myself and I don’t have any clothes left. Out she goes.

Thanks for Gary Chapin for editing out the icky stuff.

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