On Folding and Magic

The first time I visited Robby’s dorm room in college, my jaw dropped. The place smelled like detergent and featured a crisply made bed. His desk held two large, shiny computer screens and his wardrobe was tightly closed. Even the rug was spotless. I plopped on his bed and asked him what color his day was. As we talked, he plucked a pair of khakis from his laundry hamper and unfurled them loudly to banish the wrinkles. Then, he folded them lengthwise, pulled the legs taut, and straightened the inseam. He compacted them in measured, horizontal flops and lowered them into a drawer. I realized that he might be a serial killer.

Turns out, he’s not. Either that, or he’s the greatest one who ever lived. At any rate, his folding skills came from working at American Eagle as a teenager. But his cleanliness standards have dropped throughout our relationship. During my senior year
of college, he still kept everything shut and tidy, but his wife beaters became jumbled with his socks and his bookshelves sprouted jewelry and trinkets like tufts of fur. I think my messy presence has worn on his tidy spirit.

So, before I moved to Atlanta, I decided to shed a chunk of my things. I approached my closet with a carefully tailored question. Instead of inquiring, “What do I want to give away?” I asked, “What do I really need to keep?”

I removed sweaters that itched, sweaters I loved by rarely wore, excess pairs of jeans, dresses that never quite matched occasions, a pair of worn-down sandals, and several socks. T-shirts were toughest, many of them having been acquired at places or events that hold great meaning. One featured a silhouette bungee jumping down the right side of my chest beside the words, “Nevis Bungee Jump! 134 meters” in bright yellow letters. I received it in Queenstown, New Zealand on my 21^st birthday after completing the jump. I mistakenly left it in the building that overlooked the jump ravine, and I navigated my way to the company’s headquarters when I returned to the city. I explained what happened and asked for another shirt—such was my conviction to gather a keepsake.

But it went in a box with everything else. By the end of the purge, two massive boxes bulged with clothes I had once picked out and possibly loved. I had also added decorations, dishes, and office supplies. Selling these things would take too much effort and time, and I felt the same toward my furniture. After managing to sell my bed, I placed a writing desk, chair, lamp, and bookshelf on the curb. Then I dropped the
two boxes at Goodwill and drove away lighter. I’ve yet to want a single item back. In fact, I can’t specifically recall more than eight.

I’m still messy. I leave dishes out and toss clothes on the couch and drop my backpack on the floor the second I get home. Robby is patient and recognizes my contrasting efforts to clean, so he treats my messiness with steady kindness and calm suggestions. But I want him to live in a space where he can breathe deeply. Last week, I purchased the book The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.  The author, Marie Kondo, insists that tackling clothes is best way to start a true tidy. Her method is rooted in one question, which should be inquired of every possession: Does it spark joy? You have to physically hold or touch the item while you ask. Its energy will tell you the truth.

I’ve been going through my dresser all morning, discarding another round of clothes. I hold them, ask the question, and either throw them in the giveaway basket or fold them in the method I picked up from the book. Folding should transform the item into a vague cylinder so that it can stand on one end. The energy of the clothes changes when they are folded in their true, comfortable form.

I’m shocked and disturbed by the fact that I enjoyed myself. I stood in my room and folded every item, taking a moment to thank each one. I wore Robby’s calm, serial killer smile the whole time. My dresser is now half empty and the room feels like an exhale, even when the drawers are closed. Magic.

Our apartment is one of my favorite elements of life in Atlanta. It’s ancient and perfectly located at a colorful intersection. The doorways are massive and the floors are slanted and the windows fall from the wall into the kitchen twice a day. The dryer is busted and the shower features a collage of thick glass tiles that turn sunlight to water. I love every square inch. Robby is my other favorite thing about my life here, and both he and the apartment deserve a space that breathes on its own. I battle my messy nature every morning, purging and cleaning a little at a time. Orion studies me from his perch on the couch. I wonder if he can feel the rooms open up.