I waste tens of dollars each month buying food products I will never, ever eat.
If you marry impatiently, register for practical things.
Oh dear, 22-year-old apartment bride, there is no heartbreak like a brand new, odd-numbered set of plates you would never have been able to afford on your own. Anything used for entertaining will only weigh you down on your search for the perfect 2-2. Choose your appliances carefully or forever begrudge the post-honeymoon discovery of “limited counterspace.”
If you were practical in planning your way to the alter and will return from it to a permanent home with unshared walls, indulge.
You’ve paid your dues and have the bridesmaid dresses to prove it – in Macy’s, scan freely for delicate stemware and heavy mountains of silver and china. Don’t hold back from choosing the things you’ve always wanted – with room to display and entertain, anything beautiful broken will be a reflection of life lived full.
My rather strong-willed sister has a list of things she will never do once she is a parent.
It got me thinking — wouldn’t it be wonderful if over the course of your life, you kept a list of the things you say you will never do? I would love to know at each age, what exactly I considered loathsome, incomprehensible or generally uncool.
I suppose I will start now.
Things I will never do:
- paint walls red – red walls in a home are oppressive
- go sky diving
- own cats or any animal that requires a litter box
- use tanning beds (ever again)
- eat at Panda Express or Hamburger Helper (ever again)
- wear red and green together when it’s not Christmas
- care about things like David Yurman, Waterford or Arthur Court
- go back to PC
- collect figurines of any kind
Aaron and I are clearing out the bookshelves, going through old books.
A: …and the best book of all time.
L: Animal Farm? That’s the best book of all time?
L: …like “bah, ram, ewe?”
It started with my own apartment and by this Saturday I was knee-deep in boxes out in Sugar Land in my parent’s garage sorting through years of my childhood.
From all junk – beanie babies and doll clothes, key chain collections and old report cards – even the two soccer trophies (my last remaining proof I ever did something athletic competitively) the only item I kept was the smallest of them all – a reading trophy from the Fort Bend County Library system.
There were so many books in those boxes. Misty of Chincoteague, Maniac McGee, A Dog Called Kitty – stacks of Goosebumps and everything Louis Sachar.
I loved to read.
When did I stop loving it? When did my appetite change?
How do people keep alive that voracious need to read through school? At some point the word extracurricular no longer applied to reading.
I figure if I keep the trophy some place I can see it every day, it will help to remind me that that little girl that wanted to be a writer someday hasn’t stopped learning, reading, devouring great words and far-off places.
The faint rocking has subsided since I got off the cruise Sunday, but every once in a while I still feel as though I am moving. Waving.
I’m sure it has something to do with the extreme inner-ear sinus situation that developed from a week of down pillows and three days of drizzly Houston drear, but I can’t help but create headlines in my head regarding the possibility there is something really wrong.
I’ll be like that girl who’s had hiccups for three years.
HOUSTON GIRL GOES ON CRUISE, NEVER GETS OFF THE BOAT
MEDICAL BULLETIN: FORTY-TWO YEARS OF SEA LEGS AND COUNTING
HYPOCHONDRIA AT SEA LEADS TO PSYCHOSOMATIC CLUMSINESS
I will tell you there’s something magical about sailing slowly away from a cold, bleak Texas coast and into progressively warmer and bluer waters until you’re standing sandy-toed in Cozumel holding a rented snorkel and feeling your skin sizzle.