Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
There’s something about vintage horror movies—the classics made before flesh-eating zombies and shark-spewing tornados became routine. I’m talking about the black-and-white masterpieces that were once Japan’s primary export.
By now, the original Godzilla and his foes are attacking Jell-O in assisted living, but they were terrifying in their prime. None of them had passports, so the carnage was confined to Asia. The Carolinas were pretty much Godzilla-proof. We were safe then, but a new threat has raised its adorable head.
Japan’s latest destructor is intent on mutilating the vintage clutter we’ve spent eons acquiring. We can run screaming, but there is no escape from Marie Kondo and her mission to tidy up the world, starting with my friend Alice, who made me watch Kondo’s Netflix show.
Marie is scary perfect. Tiny and delicate with an angelic aura and effervescent smile, she doesn’t speak much English beyond “I love mess,” so a translator shadows her around victims’ homes where she helps people heap mountains of clothes on their beds and fold socks into cubes.
Since Alice has more clothes than Goodwill Industries, dumping her enormous walk-in closet on her California king didn’t seem like a great way to start, but she was determined to take her cues from the “world-renowned tidying expert.”
“You pick up each item individually and ask if it sparks joy,” Alice said as she interrogated a lacy red bra, which must have sparked joy for somebody when she was 23. “You have to try her KonMari Method.”
No, I don’t. Alice will be trekking through Himalayan clothing peaks until Christmas. After that, she gets to throw out books. “Marie does not advise more than 30 books,” Alice says. (Let’s hope she means per shelf.)
It would be nice to know my house is neat enough to let first responders enter in an emergency. In the case of a break-in, I can blame thieves for tossing the place. But if I ever lose consciousness, my dogs are trained to drag me outside before EMS arrives. First responders see enough carnage.
I believe with all my heart that if Marie came to my house, she’d change careers. She has conquered many a mess but has yet to do battle with a clothes-hoarding, bell-bottoms storing (they may come back) cartoonist who collects picture books and puts Hobby Lobby’s inventory to shame. It would be better than Godzilla vs. King Kong. Can the Tidy Tornado defeat the Mistress of Mess, her most formidable foe? I’d buy a ticket.
You know, clutter remediation really isn’t new; Marie just made it magical. But the message is the same: Throw out all the stuff advertisers insisted you couldn’t live without, so you selflessly bought them to boost the GNP. Spend the next three years sorting what’s left into color-coded boxes. Go forth and mess no more.
Bullying the untidy has become an acceptable pastime for the naturally neat. Just when the pressure was becoming unbearable, I stumbled on an ally.
David H. Freedman believes that disorder has an upside. He even co-authored a book on the subject: A Perfect Mess: The Hidden Benefits of Disorder. Freedman says creativity thrives in chaos, and disorderly doesn’t mean disorganized. People with messy desks can often find the file they need faster than colleagues with complex filing systems. The moderately messy might even be more efficient, he says. You hear that, Kondo maniacs?
Tonight, while Alice alphabetizes her spices, we can watch Marie’s show. It’s not a horror movie after all. It’s a comedy.
Jan A. Igoe is secretly hoping David H. Freedman is single. He sparks joy in her disorderly soul. Share your mess at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop. We don’t judge.