life, mindfulness, netflix, thoughts

To Kondo or not to Kondo, that is the question…

I haven’t read her book or seen the Netflix show, and to be honest I probably won’t, mostly because the thought of watching someone sort through their crap just isn’t my thing.

I hate cleaning; don’t get me wrong I can hoover, dust, scrub and mop like a regular little Cinderella but I don’t enjoy doing it. I also hate sorting through my stuff.

I’m a bit of a pack rat, I own a lot of stuff and I know that. But sorting through it stresses me out. My anxiety ridden brain can’t cope with decisions like to throw or to keep.

I have form for making mistakes. I had the perfect denim jacket once, till I donated it with a load of other stuff to Oxfam. Bye bye excellent jacket.

A load of books was accidentally donated while my bedroom was being decorated. They got mixed in with some others and by the time I realised, it was too late.

I am the queen of donation regret, of selling on eBay remorse. Just this week I rescued a hoodie and a skirt from the donation bag at home because it occurred to me that I could put together a cute outfit with those bits.

I understand Marie Kondo’s ethos – the whole sparking joy concept. I even think people totally overreacted to get comments about books (she wasn’t saying you have to get rid of them fyi). I’m even envious of the clever t-shirt folding trick as it looks super neat and tidy, the way I’m not.

My flat could undoubtedly do with a de-clutter, a thorough tidy up, but I don’t trust myself with it all. I get super emotionally attached to objects, and I can’t throw things away.

I’m not a hoarder, although both C and I are definitely holding onto a lot of stuff we could probably live without. I’m donating some bits and pieces this weekend that I culled from my wardrobe when I swapped my summer clothes to winter (several months ago but I have to let things sit so I don’t get all regretful).

I eye up the boxes I haven’t opened since I moved in and think I really should, after 6 years, have a look at what’s in there, but later, after I finish my book.

My dad has gotten into the habit of just chucking everything in a skip and not caring, my mum saves things in hidey holes so he can’t throw away our family photo albums (a thing that he almost did once). Their standoff on what he calls “junk” has been going for at least my entire lifetime.

I’ve got better about certain things – books I can’t imagine re-reading are released into the wild via friends, family and charity shops. But even then I have form for going “Oh crap, I should have kept that book!”

C doesn’t help, he has tonnes of old Warhammer and it takes him about a year to get rid of bits of it. Whenever he does he’s like a puppy wanting his head patted. I wouldn’t mind but he buys new miniatures all the time so I don’t think it evens out.

We don’t have a big flat, and we’re a little squashed in with all the things we can’t quite say goodbye to yet.

If you need me, I’ll be buried under the overloaded bookcase. It’s the way I want to go.

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