I own things apparently intended for a much more glamorous woman.
There is perfume I use sparingly because it's expensive.
A dress waiting for somewhere worthy of it.
Candles I don't burn because they're too beautiful.
A bottle of wine that has survived several perfectly good dinners because apparently none were quite important enough.
There are shoes that rarely leave their boxes.
Serving dishes waiting for guests.
Vacation days waiting for the perfect trip.
And somewhere in a cabinet, glasses so nice that apparently only visiting royalty may drink from them.
Meanwhile, I drink Diet Coke from a plastic cup.
It occurred to me recently that I may be preserving some of the nicest parts of my life for a woman who doesn't exist yet.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
How much pleasure are we storing away for a special occasion while ordinary life keeps happening without it?
We're Very Good at Saving the Good Stuff
Most of us were taught some version of this.
Don't ruin it.
Save it.
That's expensive.
Wear something else.
We'll open that when there's something to celebrate.
It makes sense.
Beautiful things feel valuable, so we protect them.
The problem is that eventually protecting something starts looking suspiciously like never enjoying it.
The expensive candle sits untouched until the scent fades.
The dress goes out of style.
Our body changes before we wear the jeans.
The wine stays in the cabinet.
The vacation days expire.
And suddenly the thing we were saving has lasted longer than the moment we were saving it for.
What Exactly Qualifies as Special?
This is where I've become confused.
A wedding?
Obviously.
Anniversary?
Sure.
Birthday?
Absolutely.
But what about dinner on a Thursday?
What about getting through a terrible week?
What about your friend coming over?
What about your husband making pasta?
What about your child wanting to have a "fancy dinner" at the kitchen table?
What about absolutely nothing happening?
We seem to believe special occasions arrive with invitations.
Maybe sometimes they arrive disguised as Tuesdays.
We Do It With Clothes Constantly
There may be no greater museum of deferred pleasure than a closet.
The good dress.
The expensive coat.
The silk blouse.
The heels.
The bag.
We're saving them.
For dinner.
Except apparently not that dinner.
Somewhere nicer.
For vacation.
For when we've lost five pounds.
For when we're tan.
For when we have photographs taken.
For when there's an occasion.
And so we repeatedly wear the clothes we like less to protect the clothes we love more.
This is objectively bizarre.
Wear the blazer to the grocery store.
Carry the good handbag to school pickup.
Wear the silk blouse to lunch.
Put on the earrings at 10 a.m.
Be overdressed.
Nothing terrible happens.
Occasionally someone asks where you're going.
Say Trader Joe's.
Stop Waiting for the Better Body
This one deserves its own conversation.
There are clothes hanging in closets all over the world waiting for smaller bodies.
I'll wear it when…
We know the sentence.
But your current body is the one currently attending your life.
It needs clothes.
Good ones.
Not punishment clothes.
Not temporary clothes.
Not the things you tolerate while waiting to become acceptable enough for the wardrobe you actually want.
Buy things that fit.
Wear the beautiful thing now.
Your body doesn't need to earn silk.
The House Is Allowed to Live Too
We save our homes in strange ways.
The nice towels are for guests.
The dining room is for holidays.
The expensive glasses are for company.
The beautiful soap sits untouched while everyone uses the ugly bottle beside it.
We have rooms we're practically preserving for other people.
Meanwhile, we live here.
Use the towels.
Sit in the room.
Open the dishes.
Burn the candle.
Put flowers on the table even if nobody is coming over.
Especially if nobody is coming over.
A home shouldn't look its best only when strangers are visiting.
So What Do We Actually Do?
Start with one cabinet.
Or your closet.
Or the bathroom.
Find the things you've categorized as too good for ordinary life.
Then use one.
Not someday.
This week.
Open the bottle.
Burn the candle all the way down.
Wear the dress.
Take the day off.
Use the expensive moisturizer generously instead of applying it like you're rationing medicine during wartime.
Then stop requiring an occasion before buying certain experiences.
If you've wanted to try the restaurant, make the reservation.
If you've been talking about taking the weekend trip for two years, choose a weekend.
If you've been meaning to have friends over, order pizza and let them see the house dirty.
We don't need to turn every day into a celebration.
That sounds exhausting.
We just need to stop behaving as though ordinary days aren't worthy of anything good.
Tuesday Is the Special Occasion
Here's the uncomfortable part.
Most of our lives are Tuesdays.
There are relatively few weddings.
A handful of major birthdays.
Occasional vacations.
Promotions.
Anniversaries.
Big moments.
The overwhelming majority of our existence happens on completely unremarkable days.
And maybe we've misunderstood what the good stuff is for.
Perhaps the expensive perfume wasn't supposed to wait for the extraordinary life.
Maybe it was supposed to make the ordinary one smell better.
Burn the candle.
Wear the dress.
Open the wine.
Use the dishes.
Take the vacation day.
Because someday, we'll inevitably look backward and realize that the ordinary Tuesday we didn't think was special enough was our life.
And I couldn't help but wonder:
If we're saving all the good things for the life we're waiting to live, what exactly are we wearing to this one?
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