Clutter Sparks My Joy
Marie Kondo isn’t the only neat freak who’s tried to get me to clean up my act.
My older sister, who is up in heaven organizing the clouds by size, shape, and shades of gray, then labeling them according to cirrus, cumulus and when they rained on all the weddings on Long Island, spent my young life trying to instill the mantra of a place for everything and everything in its place. One look in my closets seventy-five years later will tell you how well that worked out.
You’d think clutter sparked my joy.
I know the funny anniversary card I bought for my daughter last year is in one of those closets. Maybe under the stack of twenty-five-year-old decorating magazines I bought the last time I moved? Um, in nineteen-ninety something.
Whoever linked the road to hell and good intentions had my number. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve cleaned out my office and looked at it a half hour later to find I could no longer see the bottom of my desk, I wouldn’t have to work for a living. I’d still be messy but . . .
