 illustration by Kelly Edwards |
are divisive times. Virtually everywhere you turn, you are confronted with controversial issues that separate one group from
another; each convinced of the superiority of its position, and not only the
error, but often the evil, of the other’s.
In all of the bluster and babble about political and social dilemmas that
threaten to reduce us to societal rubble, though, there is no mention of
perhaps the most grave and fundamental issue over which our society is divided.
It’s not whether you’re a Democrat or a Republican; or whether you’re
pro-choice or pro-life. Nor does it have anything to do with whether you’re a
man or a woman, Christian or non-Christian. And it doesn’t even have anything
to do with race. No. The most serious issue that confronts us today is simply
whether you love or hate the Container Store.
I happen to be in the camp
that hates the Container Store. I’m quite mindful of the fact that the majority
of our population is against me on this issue. How could I not be aware of
this? I am boxed in by “organnazis” in every compartment of my life. And even
if I weren’t surrounded by people who gladly pay what I spend on a week’s worth
of groceries on a set of three stylish but sturdy nesting boxes in assorted
colors, how could I miss the gigantic shrine to compulsive organization that
has been erected at Highway 183 & Capital of Texas Highway? I’m talking, of
course, about the brand-new, mega-huge Container Store at Gateway Shopping
Center, the temple where legions of anal retentives worship at the altar of
senseless gadgets and even more senseless containers in which to store them.
But even though the majority of our population seems to be consumed with this
dangerous and futile quest for total order, it’s imperative to remember that
when it comes to beliefs and how many folks hold them, “majority” is no
guarantee of morality or even hospitality, practicality or sanity, for that
matter. We as a society already learned that lesson at least once back in 1954
when the Supreme Court finally struck down the majority-held doctrine of
“Separate but Equal” in Brown v. Board of Education. Just as “Separate
but Equal” was bad law and morally incorrect social policy as applied to people
and schools, so is “Separate and Well-Organized,” the mission of the Container
Store when it comes to people and stuff.
I personally have lost several good friends to this cult-like movement. Joan,
a previously level-headed and upwardly mobile young woman, now simply endorses
her paycheck and hands it right over to the Container Store in exchange for her
monthly allowance of a few measly cardboard containers with jazzy patterns
printed on the outside. Back in the Seventies, my mother used to get virtually
the same results for a fraction of the price with a roll of contact paper, a
pair of scissors, and a few shoe boxes.
All of my pleas to Joan have fallen on deaf ears. “Joan, you’ll never be able
to move out of this teensy but admittedly well-organized apartment if you don’t
stop spending all of your discretionary income at the Container Store!” I
frantically told her.
“Don’t worry,” replied Joan with that vacant stare that has become so
characteristic of her these days. “If I find myself getting cramped for space,
I’ll just consult with one of the Container Store experts about getting better
organized. They provide that service for free, you know. After all, who needs
more space when you can buy more Elfa?”
I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve had to rescue Joan from one
disaster or another that has befallen her in connection with shopping at the
Container Store. Once I had to go get her because she had left her headlights
on and her battery ran down when she had attended a special lecture on shoe
organization. Yet another time I had to pick her up when she locked her keys in
her car. But she never recognized that the Container Store was the source of
her problems. Instead, her dementia had twisted her mind around to the point
where she thought that the Container Store was her only hope for a cure. “Damn!
I knew I should have bought one of those little magnetic key-storage boxes when
I saw them on sale last week!” It was pitiful.
Losing Jennifer to the Container Store was less traumatic than losing Joan,
because I knew Jennifer and I were two very different people from the
beginning. Jennifer used to spend her vacations trying to construct kitchen
cabinet organizers out of cardboard. Now she simply schedules her vacations at
the time when the Container Store is having its semi-annual clearance sale, so
she can buy pre-fabricated Expand-A-Shelf organizers at 97% of their regularly
outrageous price. On the occasions when, attempting to be helpful, I’ve pointed
out that places like Home Depot sell similar items for a heck of a lot less,
she responds with a curt, “I shop at the Container Store. I can consult with
their experts about my organizational needs — for free!”
It’s not that I can’t understand the powerful effect that this store can have
on people. I have to admit that on the few occasions that I’ve visited the
Container Store, it has had a huge impact on me. The difference, however, is in
the character of the experience. For most people, a visit to the store evokes
warm, fuzzy feelings. I, on the other hand, end up nursing a migraine at best,
or riding a scary downward spiral of depression at worst.
The minute I cross the threshold I am ambushed by my own feelings of
inadequacy, inferiority, and hopeless disorganization — feelings that I
normally manage to keep crammed deep down in my comfortably cluttered
subconscious — safely hidden from both myself and others. I originally thought
the only way to exorcise myself of these demons was to spend a lot of money on
organizational items — items that I never realized I needed, but was suddenly
convinced I couldn’t survive without. What I didn’t realize, however, was that
I was playing right into their hands. When I brought these items home, it was
like downloading a computer virus: silent and invisible, no one realizes it’s
there until its work is done and your world crashes down around you. There my
purchases sat unopened in my cramped and unorganized cabinets, constantly
reminding me of my shelving shortcomings, cabinet crises and filing failures,
and beckoning me to return to the Container Store to spend yet more money on a
“problem” that the store’s continued existence depended on perpetuating. How
diabolical. How ingenious!
Once I was on to its evil plan, I felt a duty to return to the store to try to
rescue other shoppers. I wanted to turn the light on for them — to open their
eyes. I wanted to stand in the busiest aisle — probably the Elfa aisle — and
shout at the top of my lungs, “Look, the Emperor has no clothes!” Losing my
nerve at the last minute, I settled instead for subtle mockery. “Wanna have
some fun?” I asked my son. The gleam in his 11-year-old eyes gave me the answer
I was looking for. “Here. Take this shoe and go tell the guy behind the counter
that your mom wants to see these in a size 10,” I instructed as I handed him a
shoe that was being used as a prop in the Overdoor 24-pair Shoe Rack display.
My son readily obeyed, thrilled at the opportunity to participate in some
mother-approved rabble-rousing, and worried that if he didn’t move fast enough,
I might come to my senses before he actually made it to the counter. I hung
back, close enough to be able to hear, but far enough away for my son to appear
to be on his own.
“Uh. We don’t actually sell shoes here,” explained the polite, high-school
aged clerk. “This is just part of our display about how to organize your
shoes…” His patient explanation was rudely interrupted by our shrieks of
laughter. He quickly put two and two together and realized that a) the boy was
with me, b) this was our idea of a joke, and c) he was the butt of it. Being a
good sport, he started to laugh along with us, pointing at me and saying in a
voice even louder than our laughter, “I get it. Yeah, sure! Size 10! Ha, ha!
You want to see them in a size 10! Ha, ha! A lady with size 10 feet! Ha, ha!
Yeah, sure!”
All the commotion and hysterics began drawing people’s attention. They began
looking at me, and more specifically, at my feet. What the clerk didn’t realize
(but all of the spectators did with one quick glance) was that I actually
did have whopping size 10 feet — abnormally large for a woman my size, or
a woman of any size, for that matter. I was mortified. I expected the clerk to
look down at my feet at any second and be horrified by the realization of how
badly he had just put his own, relatively petite foot in his mouth. But not
even that much satisfaction was to be mine that day. I grabbed my son by the
hand, and we ran out of the store as fast as we could, the sound of the clerk’s
laughter chasing close behind us. It took a couple of hours for my face to lose
the beet-red hue that it had developed and return to its natural olive color. I
had been beaten by the evil store once again. I haven’t been back since.
I guess I have to come up with another way to spread my message about the dangers of over-organization.
And my message is simply this: Too much separation and organization is bad. It
kills creativity. It snuffs out people’s fire, their spark, their spirit. It
makes everything hum-drum. Think about it. Armies are nothing if not
well-ordered and organized. Yet with all of their order and organization, they
never manage to produce any decent artists or have any sense of style. That’s
why armies always go around looting the art of other less-organized, more
creative countries.
And let’s face it: Cabinets and closets have doors for a reason. If your
closets and cabinets are spotlessly clean, color-coded and perfectly organized,
why would you want to hide them behind closed doors? The truth is, houses, like
people, have parts of them that should be kept private–places that are
somewhat out of order, or even in complete disarray. These places are usually
dark and located in hard-to-find recesses. They have things, either God-given
or man-made, to keep them hidden or altogether closed up. That’s the way God
intended it to be; and that’s what keeps life interesting.
So, listen up, all of you Container Store organnazis: You’ll get my kitchen
junkdrawer when you pry my cold and bloody fingers off its handle!
This article appears in January 3 • 1997 and January 3 • 1997 (Cover).