Recently, I found myself emotional over a bottle of perfume. On one of those rare days where I decided to indulge, I reached for the bottle tucked away near my jewelry box, instead of the one on my dresser that I use daily without thought. The perfume on my dresser is my go-to; I spray it liberally each morning, letting its uplifting aroma set a positive tone for my day.
The one beside my jewelry box, however, holds memories of my wedding day, wrapping me in a feeling of youth and beauty as its fragrance mingles with my hair. As I tried to recall the last time I wore this cherished scent, I realized that months and years had slipped by since I last experienced its magic. With a heavy heart, I uncorked the bottle, only to be met with a disappointing fragrance that had soured with age. I had waited too long to embrace the special moments, and now this treasured perfume would have to be discarded, much like the used tissues I carelessly toss away.
I have a habit of saving things. Not money—much to my husband’s frustration—or broken toys and outgrown clothes. I’m diligent about decluttering closets and removing old decorations. Yet, I hold onto certain items. I find myself waiting for the perfect occasion to wear my favorite perfume or to indulge in the body lotion I adore. I tell myself I’ll buy new jeans when I shed a few pounds, or I’ll cut my hair into a chic bob once I feel more “adult.” I postpone home manicures until I stop biting my cuticles and plan to buy a real leather purse when I finally feel grown-up.
I put off writing the novel that exists in my mind until both kids are in school, and I intend to color my hair with pink streaks once I publish my next collection of short stories. I even delay retiring my college pajamas until I accomplish something significant.
On the day I discovered the ruined perfume, I drove alone to pick up cupcakes, basking in the bright Michigan winter sunshine. I slid on my sunglasses—the ones with the peeling tortoiseshell that I keep meaning to replace—and cranked up the music to a volume that doesn’t suit having little ones in the backseat. The dry heat in my car warmed my parched skin and let me pretend, as long as I avoided the icy window, that spring was just around the corner.
A familiar song came on—“Hey Jealousy” by the Gin Blossoms—and suddenly, my car transformed into a time machine. The car seats and scattered toys faded, replaced by memories of my teenage years, crammed in a friend’s car, rewinding cassette tapes and waving from the sunroof, desperately trying to navigate adulthood.
I turned the volume up even more, pushing the limits of my car’s sound system, singing lyrics I hadn’t remembered in years. The burdens of time seemed to lift off my shoulders momentarily. Moments later, a Taylor Swift song played, grounding me back in the present, reminding me of my daughter’s own love for her music.
The present exists between those two songs. The days I imagine I’m waiting for—where I’m slimmer, less busy, and more focused—may never come. I might never reach the life that feels worthy of all the things I’m saving for that “perfect” time. By holding onto my aspirations for an ideal future, I risk letting the joy of the present slip away. My worn purse spills its contents onto my car floor daily, waiting for the time when I’ll transfer my belongings into a bag with a zipper. Unfinished drafts of stories wait patiently, and I realize I don’t want to discard my beloved perfume again.
I save things for those elusive perfect days, but perhaps it’s time to embrace the beauty of imperfect moments instead. For more insights on navigating life’s journeys, check out our post on home insemination.
Summary
In this reflective piece, Jenna Hart shares her emotional journey with the act of saving cherished items for “perfect” moments that may never come. She realizes that by postponing joy and indulgence until the future, she risks missing out on the beauty of the present. Embracing imperfection is essential for living fully and authentically.