The other day, I found myself unexpectedly emotional over a bottle of perfume. On a rare self-indulgent day, I decided to reach for my special fragrance, usually tucked away next to my jewelry box, instead of the go-to scent on my dresser. My everyday perfume, spritzed without a second thought, fills my mornings with joy. But the one near my jewelry box? That scent envelops me in nostalgia, whisking me back to my wedding day, making me feel youthful, radiant, and almost beautiful.
As I tried to remember the last time I had worn that “good” perfume, I realized it had been ages—too long, in fact. With a heavy heart, I uncapped the bottle, only to be met with a fragrance that had soured over time, a cacophony of notes that once danced gracefully now clashed in regret. I had let too much time slip away between the special occasions, and the rest of that beautiful bottle was destined for the trash alongside the used cotton balls and tissues.
You see, I’m a saver. Not in the financial sense, much to my partner’s chagrin, nor do I cling to broken toys or outgrown clothes. I’m quite ruthless in clearing out closets and tossing old decorations. However, I have a tendency to hoard certain things. I save my favorite perfumes and lotions for “just the right occasion.” I promise myself I’ll treat myself to a new wardrobe when I lose 15 pounds, or I’ll finally get that chic bob after shedding ten.
I keep putting off home manicures until I stop biting my cuticles. I plan to invest in a real leather bag when I finally feel like an adult. I tell myself I’ll begin writing the novel that’s been brewing in my mind only when both kids are in school. The list goes on: adding pink streaks to my hair after I publish my next short story collection, retiring my college pajamas after I achieve…something.
On the day I discovered my ruined perfume, I took a solo drive to grab cupcakes under the bright Michigan winter sun. Sporting my well-loved sunglasses—peeling tortoiseshell that I promise to replace someday—I cranked up the volume on my car radio, relishing the freedom of driving without little ones in the backseat. As the familiar tune of “Hey Jealousy” by the Gin Blossoms filled the car, I was transported back to my teenage years, crammed into a friend’s car, singing along with reckless abandon.
I cranked up the music, letting the nostalgia wash over me until it was interrupted by Taylor Swift, pulling me back to the present and my daughter’s rendition of her favorite artist. The truth is, the days I think I’m waiting for—when I’m thinner, less busy, or more focused—might never arrive. I could be missing out on the life that’s unfolding right now while I wait for those elusive perfect moments.
By hoarding the things I desire for some imagined perfect day, I risk losing them altogether. My tattered purse spills its contents all over my car daily, waiting for a time when I’ll have a bag with a real zipper. My unedited writing sits idle in rough drafts, and I know I don’t want to face the loss of my favorite perfume again.
So maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the perfect day and start embracing the beautiful chaos of these imperfect moments instead.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, the author explores the emotional weight of saving special items for “perfect” occasions, ultimately realizing that waiting may lead to loss. Instead of holding onto things for an ideal future, embracing the imperfect present might be more fulfilling.