My KonMari Meltdown
It all started with a documentary. You know the one—where perfectly serene people gleefully discard their belongings while whispering sweet nothings to t-shirts. “Does this spark joy?” they’d ask, their eyes twinkling with newfound freedom. My eyes? They were twinkling with tears. Tears of frustration because my sock drawer looked like a yarn monster exploded, and tears of longing for that elusive minimalist nirvana.
So, armed with a healthy dose of naiveté and a garbage bag that was way too small, I embarked on my minimalist journey. What could possibly go wrong?
The Great Book Purge of 2023 (and Why It Backfired)
My first target? The towering stacks of books threatening to engulf my bedroom. I mean, how many dog-eared copies of “Pride and Prejudice” does one person need? (The answer, according to my heart, is all of them).
Defeated, I shoved a few old magazines into the garbage bag and called it a day. Minimalism score: Books – 1, Me – 0.
When Sentimental Value Beats Minimalism
Next up: clothes. This, I thought, would be easier. After all, I hadn’t worn that tie-dye crop top since the ’90s (thank goodness). But then I unearthed a treasure trove of memories, lovingly preserved in cotton and denim:
- The concert tee from my first rock show (still faintly smelling of sweat and teenage rebellion).
- The sweater my grandma knitted for me (slightly moth-eaten but imbued with love).
- The ridiculous costume I wore to that one party (evidence that I once possessed the ability to let loose).