It is the New Year. Time for that pesky annual resolution to declutter the house. Be truthful. We have all made that promise to ourselves and failed miserably, usually by the second day of January. But wait. There is a new organizer in town, Marie Kondo who brings a Japanese flair to our organizing efforts. Instead of moving unwanted items from one room to another, we work in categories. And we critique each item, not on fit or usefulness, but for joy. Those items which do not rise to the standard of our joy are thanked and gently passed from our lives.

I begin with the first category – clothing. I pull blouses, pants, skirts and dresses from my closet. I hold each to me, look in the mirror and scream. What was I thinking? How did I once feel joy in these garments? Calling them snug-fitting would be a bold-faced lie. I verge on homicidal thoughts and fling them across the room. They are saved from banishment only because they have banded together, shrinking before my eyes as they are exposed to the light of day. I cannot dispose of all, leaving my shivering body exposed. Perhaps I will keep one or two items, wearing them to work, until my Poshmark order arrives.

I need to adjust my attitude, dig deep into myself and pay respect to my long-worn apparel. I will address the pieces more reverently.

Dear bra, we have seen many days together. Time has not been kind to either of us. We droop in the front, our underwiring compromised by the loads we both carry. It is not joy you bring but a sense of comfort. You have allowed me to overflow your constraints, to be seen only from behind. I have compensated for your failings by selecting extra (extra) large t-shirts when venturing outside. We hide our secrets well. I could bring a new bra into my life, but I know this will be met with resistance. The size tag boasts it is the same as you but is blatantly short in girth. Its straps yanks upward, refusing to cuddle my ample breasts. Instead it thrusts them towards my chins, merging dueling flesh into one mound, protruding beyond the point of my nose.

Dear undies, I hold you above my head and ponder if your only purpose is to cover my derriere. Did nomads use you for tents, protecting their families from the fierce ravages of winter? I once took joy in the dainty lace of your earlier (years earlier) sisters. You bear no decorations, displaying only the wide band of industrial strength elastic. I sigh as I toss the last sexy pair of panties, a hold-over from my single days. The petite article, a soft shade of lavender, does not contain enough cloth in the crotch to stick my Always daytime liners, a necessary addition to grannie panties.

Undear Spanks, I see you hiding in the back of the drawer. You are the evilest of creatures, promising me a slimmer look without the embarrassing indents of pantie and bra lines. You dare call yourself by a fancy name, but you are nothing more than a rebranded girdle from my mother’s youth. Worse, you mock me, pushing what is below the waist on an uphill journey, to regions already overcrowded. I dance with joy as I propel you out the window. Finally, yes, I have found joy in an unloved piece of clothing.

Dearest sweats, my daily companions as I hide from the world. You wrap your soft fleece about my body, complain not when I wipe my greasy popcorn covered fingers across you. I care not for what color you once were, what slogan was displayed across my chest or butt. You are here for me now as I pause in my decluttering tasks to watch another Netflix episode of “Tidying Up with Marie Kondo.” I relax in the Zen of your acceptance.