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Why Holding Onto Things Is Overrated
I found myself tearing up over a bottle of perfume the other day. On an unusual day when I decided to indulge in my favorite things, I reached for the bottle that rests near my jewelry box instead of the one on my dresser. I spritz the daily perfume from my dresser without a second thought, letting its scent brighten my morning and lift my spirits.
But the perfume next to my jewelry box? That one wraps around me like a warm hug, whisking me back to my wedding day. It makes me feel refreshed, youthful, and almost beautiful as it mingles with my hair. However, as I tried to recall the last time I wore my “special” perfume, I realized it had been ages. With a twinge of dread, I uncapped it, only to be hit by a scent that had turned sour. The notes I once adored had become a jumbled mess, and I knew I needed to toss it out, just like the used tissues and cotton balls I discard without a second thought.
You see, I have a habit of saving things. Not money, much to my husband’s chagrin. I don’t hold on to broken toys or outgrown clothes. I’m pretty ruthless when it comes to decluttering closets and getting rid of old decorations. Yet, somehow, I still find myself saving things.
I wait to wear my favorite perfume or to use the body lotion that brings me joy. I tell myself I’ll buy new jeans when I lose 15 pounds, or transform my hair into a chic bob when I shed ten. I plan to start home manicures once I stop picking at my cuticles, and I dream of buying a real leather purse when I finally feel like an adult—or maybe when I publish my next short story collection.
The other day, as I drove alone to pick up cupcakes in the bright but cold Michigan sunshine, I put on my sunglasses—those peeling tortoiseshell ones I keep promising myself to replace—and cranked up the music to a volume that’s way too loud for little ears in the backseat. The dry heat of the car warmed my chapped skin, and for a moment, I imagined that spring could soon be here.
Then, a familiar tune came on—“Hey Jealousy” by the Gin Blossoms—and suddenly, my car became a time machine. Car seats and stray toys transformed back into a crowded red Sunbird filled with teenage girls, where we’d rewind cassettes and wave from the sunroof, desperate to grow up. I turned the music up louder, letting the lyrics spill from my lips, and it felt like the years just melted away. But then Taylor Swift’s voice filled the car, and I was reminded of my daughter’s love for her music.
The present exists somewhere between those two songs. The days I keep waiting for—the ones where I’m thinner, less busy, and more focused—may never arrive. I might never experience the life that justifies all the things I’m saving for a “better” time. By holding onto my dreams for some idyllic future, I risk letting them slip through my fingers. My torn purse spills its contents onto my car floor daily, waiting for a time when I can transfer my stuff into a proper bag. Unfinished drafts sit patiently, and I realize I don’t want to lose my favorite perfume again.
So maybe it’s time to celebrate the chaos of these imperfect days instead of waiting for the perfect ones. Life is happening now, and it’s okay to embrace the messiness.
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In summary, we often hold onto things, waiting for the perfect moment to use or enjoy them. But life is too short to wait; it’s time to relish the beautiful imperfections of today.