also available at:
Fashion

Dear Marie Kondo: In Defence Of Holding On To Things

Go home, Marie. Everything I own sparks joy.

Let me tell you about my wardrobe. When you open the doors, you’ll find yourself facing an organised-by-colour, every-colour-of-the-rainbow smorgasbord. Yes, the one-shoulder purple ruffled dress with a massive pineapple may stand out to some, and the pink sequinned mini dress may stand out to others, but for all the wearable-everyday pieces and the when-will-you-wear-this tomfoolery, none of them belong to the KonMari purgatory the entire world has decided to subscribe to.

Here’s the thing. Some people reminisce with songs, other people are reminded of the people they love based on scents. Me? My clothes remind of the live I’ve lived, the people I’ve loved, the state of mind I’ve purchased these pieces with. The trinkets, the funny finds, the clutter that makes my mother tear her hair out, but brings me so much joy. I can remember where I’ve purchased (and usually, how much I got it for because I’m a bargain hunter) every single piece of clothing I own — if I’ve ever told you I don’t remember where I bought something, it’s probably because I don’t want you wearing the same thing.

You see, I get that the getting rid of stuff you don’t need from your wardrobe works for people who’ve bought seven Breton tops just because. But I’m not that person. My wardrobe is a cornucopia of labels; there’s a piece from COS that I bought in Berlin in 2008, a Kate Moss for Topshop dress that I still love from 2007, vintage knick knacks from when I lived in Los Angeles, a skirt I picked up in Papua New Guinea. All the clothes I have now, they spark not only joy, but a memory of when I had them on, of the period in my life when I loved to wear them the most, or even of the trips I took when I had purchased them.

Maybe I’ll never ever wear those lace-up sandals with pom poms that were all the rage two summers ago with a toddler in hand now. And maybe Marie Kondo would look at my wardrobe and call it purgatory, but I don’t want to think about whether or not my bright purple Wolford tights makes my heart flutter — and I’m definitely not going to toss them just because no tights will get me excited in this 35-degree heat. Neither am I folding all my clothes, because how the heck do I fold my raincoat I schlepped home from a store in Palm Springs?

Besides, I would rather be able to pull out a pair of red roller skates and a pink tutu from my bursting wardrobe any day over all the jettisoned clothing and memorabilia Kondo has conned the world into leaving behind.