#72, Killing KonMari
“I think about you all the time. I think about what you’re wearing, and what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. I think about the friends you have, I think about what you eat before you go to work, and what shampoo you have, and what happened in your family. I think about your eyes and your mouth, and what you feel when you kill someone. I think about what you have for breakfast. I just want to know everything.” — Sandra Oh as Eve Polastri in “Killing Eve”
*
“Without a doubt, she suffered the most from my research on tidying, serving as my unsuspecting victim.” — Marie Kondo, The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up
On the day that Marie Kondo is coming to my house, I wake early and dress in my white cardigan and white flowered skirt. I take off the skirt and put on Spanx and black tights and then put the skirt back on. I slide my feet into black pumps.
I adjust my black wig with bangs. Perfect.
The black SUV pulls up in front of my house. “You’ll need the parking pass on the dashboard!” I call. It is raining. Marie and her translator walk toward the house, her translator holding an umbrella over both of them. When they get to my door, they see that I, too, am holding an umbrella over my head, even though I am inside.
“I love a big umbrella,” I say.
***
As I show them around the house, I know that I’m talking too much. Excuses pour out of me like vomit. “We just moved in a few months ago,” I say, although it was two years.
“I guess this does look like a lot of wooden spoons, but I do cook a lot so I don’t know that they spark joy, necessarily, but we have to eat?”
“Here are some of our books. Did you know I was an English major in college? I guess that’s why we have so many books! And here are my husband’s books. We can start by getting rid of those. Today is my wedding anniversary. You visiting is my present to myself! He doesn’t know you’re here, actually.”
“And here are some of the tiny boxes that I’ve been saving for 18 years. They’ve made at least six moves with me!”
“We’re not actively using these baby blankets right now, but you never know! You have two kids, right? Do you ever think about a third? What did you look like when you were pregnant, by the way?”
“I decanted these Sour Patch Kids into this big jar. No big deal.”
After awhile, the translator just stops translating.
***
As we head upstairs, Marie sees that I have already piled all of my clothes on my bed in preparation. But the look of mild pleasure on her face turns to shock as she realizes that what looked like a pile of clothes is actually 144 white cardigans that I ordered from BuyWholesaleApparel.com.
In the bedroom bookcase, dozens, hundreds of copies of “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” They’re stacked on the floor, lining the walls.
“I’m planning to read all of these,” I explain.
***
“I think about you all the time,” I say, lying on the bed alone on a nest of white cardigans.
“I think about what you’re wearing, and what you’re doing, and who you’re doing it with. I think about y, I think about what your kids eat and who takes care of them when you’re working, and what you sound like when you yell, and whether you breastfed. I think about your eyes, because are those fake eyelashes?, and if you’ve ever been drunk, I mean really drunk. I think about what you meant when you said you ‘scold’ your children when they unfold the stuff you folded. I just want to know everything.”
And then I pull out the knife.
***
“Mom?”
Time seems to stop. Hugh and Alice have crept up the stairs and are standing in the corner of the bedroom, watching us with wide eyes.
“Guys!” I yell. “I told you to stay out of here.”
But it is too late. Marie Kondo kneels down and opens her slim arms and my children run into them.
Screaming, I stab the knife into my own chest. But it barely creases the fabric of my cardigan. Puzzled, I try again and it slides to the floor, as harmless as a pair of children’s scissors.
I crumple to the floor, weeping, leaning against the bed. I notice an entire box of Christmas decorations that I forgot about under there.
Marie says something to the translator.
“It’s best to keep your knives sharpened,” the translator tells me. “I recommend a traditional whetstone. Your wig is falling off.”
Marie is already standing up, getting ready to go, carrying my heavy children, one in each arm.
“Wait,” I call desperately as they start to leave. “I have just one last question. If you had to rank your clients, just kind of roughly, where would you put me?”
She looks back at me briefly, then nods toward the white cardigans scattered all over the floor.
“You really should keep those folded,” she says in perfect English.