No, This Drawer Divider Won’t Save You Either

When the washing machine broke, a thought hit me like a slug in the chest. My sternum shuddered with realization. Don’t get me wrong, I tried to choke it down. I ordered some spare socks and a bottle of antibacterial mist, then went about my life.

You see, it took me a whole month to get myself to call the repairman, and then some days more till he came over, only to pull out a shirt pin from the machine’s insides like a mortician identifying the cause of death. “A puncture of the mucosa.” (That’s the innermost layer of the stomach for those who, like me, daydreamed through biology class).

During that month and a bit, I never wore the same outfit twice. Every scene was glorious. I glided around in summer dresses, I pushed my glasses up my nose in knit turtlenecks, I shook my hips to music in wool joggers - every day, a different me would emerge from the bowels of my closet. And that me would be happy. Every inch of fabric brought me joy. I was Marie Kondoing with the best of them.

What is normal? To some heiress up in Holland Park, with her vault of couture, 35 measly outfits or so wouldn’t even move the dial. To a mother of three down in Tower Hamlets, 35 gorgeous outfits could keep her girls from feeling like they were missing out on life.

To me, it felt obscene. Not because it was wasteful - to some extent I’d gotten enough wear out of everything I owned. I could justify some pieces as more than 5 years old, others as second hand, and the rest as presents from people who had come and gone through my life, leaving a piece of themselves behind. But once I peeked behind the curtains with the old voyeur's repugnant yet unbearable curiosity, I saw the pit from which all my possessions had crawled out.

The books lined up in double layers on each shelf of each bookcase. The stacked drawers filled with makeup, one a little ajar with an oversized brush poking out. The precariously balanced tower of dishes waiting in each and every cupboard, terrified of someone slamming a door and dooming them all.

I overbuy, big revelation. Who doesn’t these days? But the why and the how reached out to me and dragged a cold, decaying finger down my spine. Like a colorful marionette whose strings are only pulled in one direction, every time I'm sad, I buy. Every time I'm happy, I buy. Every time I'm proud, I buy. Every emotion has to materialize into the physical world as another item added to another collection.

When the washing machine broke down, I recognized the Pavlovian nature of it all.

I am no dog, I say out loud.

So I pull down the curtains and take everything in, let the overwhelming avalanche of pure possession wash over me.

Time for some spring cleaning. And since no spring cleaning article is complete without a list, these are the 8 steps I've put together:

1. Try on every piece of clothing you own.
2. Paw at every book in the house to see if it sparks joy.
3. Smear war paint on your face three times a day to use up more makeup.
4. Eat off of every plate and out of every bowl, to say goodbye.
5. Make 3 piles titled Keep, Donate, and Bin.
6. Split the Keep pile into Really Keep and Sell.
7. Get a Depop account.
8. Knock your conscience out with every burst of serotonin that the loss of another item sends through your brain.

And so I end up with less stuff.

I reckon I could make it through two weeks, at the very most, if the washing machine breaks down again. So, I reward myself with a minimalist bronze rack for the books I want to prioritize. Then a divider since I can fit every makeup item I own into a single drawer now. And a bullet journal to keep all my shopping bans in one place.

And… I guess you already see where this is going, so let me subvert your expectations.

Those 8 steps were not a set-up for some punch-line about how you must spring clean yourself before you can spring clean your house. If you're anywhere near my level of social conditioning, it’s gonna take a lot more than 900 words to do it. In a world that always sings the same “You deserve it, girl!” song, the ear worm has taken permanent residence in my brain. We should all cut ourselves a little slack and just buy the thing. Live a little.

It takes every fibre of my being to stop singing along just long enough to say this about every self-imposed shopping ban I’ve ever broken: it all starts with a silky voice in my head that vibrates through the strings growing from my puppet limbs, saying this:

Buy the right thing and your world will be alright again.

Buy the organic cotton t-shirt and you'll be saving the Earth. Buy the stoneware set and you'll be saving the old craftsmen. Buy the right book and you'll be saving yourself.

Wrong, voice of rabid consumerism, is what I will say right back.

Buy nothing. That's when you'll be free again.

It’s the only spring cleaning tip I actually believe in.