This love of clothes, it’s a cursed thing. Everywhere I look there are cabinet drawers, boxes, plastic bags, canvas sacks, more cardboard boxes, and sundry junk drawers overflowing with outfits for every season and every reason—pastels, brights, neutrals, whites, blacks, reds, and every color in between.

Take, for example, my decades-long obsession with animal print. I have animal print in every style—in a flowy maxi dress, a knee-length dress, a jumpsuit, a romper, a Manish Malhotra gown; even a bikini or two in ubiquitous animal print.

This last year when the trend became fashionable again, I cautioned myself. I will not succumb. I will hold steadfast, I repeated to myself as tantalizing emails from Loft, NY&Co., and Nordstrom popped up in my inbox everyday—glimpses of new-again animal print outfits for spring, for fall, for winter.

For a while, I stood firm in my resolve to say “No” to animal print. And, then, last week, after another rejection letter stating ever-so-politely, “I love the premise of your novel, but it does not fit my acquisition list at the moment,” I caved in.

As a now proud owner of Jeffrey Campbell animal print sling back sandals, I strut to the mirror and admire the flattering wing-tipped shoes. How well it livens up the bland black pinstriped pantsuit that I need to wear for a court appearance this morning. I’m happy. I’m satisfied. I’m in Paradise. Then, I catch sight of the animal print sneakers protruding from the back of my closet.

I shake my head in dismay. My mom was just the same. She wore utilitarian lingerie but never was there a fashion trend she didn’t follow. We may have had to budget how many movies we could watch at Alankar Cinemas in a month but buying a brand new set of clothes—a salwar-kameez or a sari every Diwali and every Holi, every Raksha-Bandhan and every Lohri—and each festival that cropped up every two months on the Hindu calendar, yessir! A “New Festival” outfit was a non-negotiable item for my mom.

Entirely independent of the “Marie Kondo” influence, I’m determined this is a sickness I cannot pass on. I march upstairs, pausing every so often to admire the animal print pointed-toe footwear on my feet. Resolutely, I open the door to my eighteen-year-old daughter’s bedroom closet. From every crevice and in every corner I spy cascades of clothes spilling over—lace, leather, plaid, cheetah-print, snakeskin—in more colors and textures than could be imagined.

I close the door behind me softly. I walk away, chewing my lip.

Maybe I’ll have better luck with my grand-daughter.