Kondo, of course, is the author of The Life-Changing Magic Of Tidying Up, the book that encourages would-be declutterers to pick up everything in their home to determine whether or not it “sparks joy.” If yes, it gets to stay; if no, sayonara. Kondo recommends an order to go through your possessions—you start with clothes; make your way through books, papers, and miscellany; and wind up the process by sorting through your mementoes and sentimental items.
As you might recall, I believe that my commitment to decluttering thirty years of accumulated goods is linked to my financial well-being and my mental and physical health. I continue that process, although not Marie Kondo style. Kondo believes that you should get down and get to it and finish the process fast, though she allows for a whole house taking about six months. I’m going a lot more slowly, primarily because I have other demands on my time, but also because going through stuff is tiring.
I’m also not strictly following her order of processing one’s possessions, but I did think the idea of focusing on clothes was a good one. I figured it would be easier than papers, which is a giant logjam for me. Clothes: they fit or they don’t; you wear them or you don’t. It seemed relatively black and white.
Then I came across the green Wesleyan sweatshirt pictured above. The right cuff is barely hanging on to the sleeve; the collar in the back is totally detached; it has holes and spots everywhere. I don’t wear it because I consider it too fragile to put through the washing machine, and I do anything I can to avoid handwash, so that’s not a real option. Also: It's not super flattering.
But this sweatshirt tells a story. When I was an undergrad at Wesleyan, they didn’t make this style of sweatshirt any more. In fact, I don’t really know why they ever made it, as Wesleyan’s school colors are red and black. What is this color, even? Pottery Barn might call it sea foam; Garnet Hill might call it kale, although neither seems quite right. It’s faded now, of course, but, to me, it’s always been a woodsy color, now the shade of the underside of a sycamore leaf that’s been resting on the forest floor for a while.
My friend Justine and I, both freshpeople, found two of these sweatshirts in the basement of West College, a Wesleyan residence hall. And I’m not using “found” euphemistically. They were dry and balled up, cleanish, in a kind of underground tunnel, and honestly, they looked like they had been there for quite some time. Justine was the one who noticed their vintage appeal: “They don’t make this sweatshirt any more.” So the shirts immediately gained cachet because of our perception of their scarcity.
We each took one and we wore them a lot that first year. After, I kept mine, but I seldom wore it; I did like having it and coming across it occasionally.
Justine and I were both diagnosed with advanced stage cancer around the same time, but she did not live to tell about it. So, nowadays, every time I come across my green Wes sweatshirt, I always remember Justine fondly and with a lot of love.
So Kondo’s idea—do your clothes first—which seems so reasonable and straightforward, so black and white, can enter a gray area very quickly when your old green sweatshirt is also a memento, a reminder of someone you loved, someone you continue to love.
All I know: I’m hanging on to this sweatshirt until it disintegrates into threads. And then I’ll put what’s left into a baggie and still keep it.