The magic of tidying up

I don’t know what made me do it in the end, what made me seek her out: FOMO; morbid curiosity; a secret yearning for something more? But, on one dark Saturday afternoon, I sat down and watched every episode of Marie Kondo’s show on Netflix. In it, the miniature Japanese lady bounces into people’s homes and forces them to sort their stuff out: possessions are culled depending on their ability to ‘spark joy’, and then categorised into boxes. Neuroses and long-held resentments between couples are laid bare; watching it with Bae was passive-aggressive therapy.

The credits rolled. We put on our coats. In TK Maxx, we eyed the other shoppers suspiciously. “We can’t go home and measure. Every minute is another minute someone watches that show and needs to buy boxes. There’s going to be a run on boxes. There aren’t enough boxes in the world, Ciara.” He was right. I took out my wallet.

It’s amazing, once you start categorising, just how many things there are to categorise: T-shirts, old birthday cards, staplers. I sorted my travel toiletries into different tiny boxes: hair, teeth, moisturising. It was like the world’s shittest jigsaw; I felt more alive than I had in years. Bae held each pair of his socks, regarded them like a precious artefact, and placed them in one of two piles. We both thanked the rejected socks aloud, as Marie dictates, eyes sparkling with zeal.

On the third day, a friend called over. Piles of bags teetered by the door, towels were arranged in a pyramid of rolls in the middle of the hall. I emerged, gleaming with sweat, my hair greasy, thrusting a collection of hand creams into his face, “Smell these and see if any spark joy,” Bae looked up from origami-ing plastic bags into triangles, surrounded by detritus, “Look how much better our life is!”

At one point in the Kondo reverie, we ordered pedometers. We made plans for dinner parties with all our friends. The place looks like it’s been burgled. I’m tired. I am so, so tired. Marie: what have you done?