Wear the dress. Write in the notebook. Use the soap. Pour the Italian balsamic
This morning I went to meditate and realized I only had my fancy candle left.
Not the regular candle. Not the “this is fine for a Tuesday” candle. The special one. The one I’ve been saving like it’s a limited edition relic from a lost civilization. The candle equivalent of good china.
Normally I light a candle before I start meditation. Then I blow it out when I’m done. It’s a small ritual and a comfort. A tiny line in the sand between my real life and the part of the day where I try to be a person with a nervous system instead of a raccoon with a calendar.
But today the only option was the candle I’ve been saving.
And for a second I did what we all do. I paused. I thought, Maybe I shouldn’t waste it.
Which is hilarious, because what exactly was I waiting for? Some future morning where I’m calmer, more enlightened, and wearing freshly pressed linen? A day when I’ve finally earned the right to light my own candle?
So I lit it.
The flame caught instantly. The room warmed by half a degree. The scent rose up like I was doing something important. Which, honestly, I was. Not because the candle mattered.
Because I did.
And it hit me, mid-breath: I sometimes treat my real life like it’s a dress rehearsal.
Because it’s not just candles. It’s everything.
Nice soap that only comes out when someone sleeps over.
The “best” dress waiting in the closet for a better version of your body.
Fancy glassware you never use because you might break it and then what would you even do with your life.
That new notebook you’re saving because you’ll make mistakes and ruin its pristine pages.
Italian balsamic you treat like it should only touch heirloom tomatoes grown by monks.
We act like pleasure’s something you’re supposed to reserve for a later version of life, one where you’re calmer, more organized, more secure, and less likely to eat dinner standing at the counter watching a show.
As if the point is to preserve the good things untouched, rather than actually experience them.
Why do we do this?
I think there are a lot of reasons. Possibly all of them at once.
The “Not Yet” Myth
Sometimes we think we have to earn the good stuff.
We don’t say it like that. We dress it up as being “practical,” or “disciplined,” or “not wasteful.”
But underneath there’s a strange little belief that runs through the brain like a hidden operating system: I’m not quite ready yet.
The good candle is for when you’ve made it.
Nice soap is for a spotless bathroom.
Your beautiful dress is for a perfect set of legs.
Italian balsamic is for when you cook like a person who knows what they’re doing.
And until then, you can have the backup version of everything.
The Perfect Moment Fantasy
Sometimes we’re perfectionists.
We want the moment to match the object.
We want the candlelit meditation to happen in a home that doesn’t have laundry on the table.
We want the dress to be worn to a beautiful dinner, not to a casual thing where you end up discussing the menu’s pros and cons for an hour.
We want the good soap to lather up someone who appreciates it, not you. Not feral and emotionally difficult you.
But perfection is always a moving target, which means “not yet” becomes permanent.
Fear Disguised as Maturity
Sometimes we don’t want to waste it.
This one is the most reasonable-sounding.
We tell ourselves we’re being mature.
But it’s not maturity. It’s fear.
Fear of using something up.
Fear of needing to replace it.
Fear of using up the good thing and being left with ordinary life.
The Letdown We’re Avoiding
Sometimes we’re afraid it won’t be as good as we imagined.
This is a sneaky one.
Anticipation is a controlled environment.
Reality is not.
If you never burn the fancy candle, you never risk discovering it’s just… fine. Nice, but not life-changing. Like most things in adulthood. Even candles from Tiffany & Co. burn down to nothing. Wax is wax.
So you keep it pristine. You preserve the fantasy. You protect the best possible version of the moment by never having it.
The Cool-Girl Reflex
Sometimes we don’t want to be seen wanting.
This is the one I understand the most.
Wanting is vulnerable.
You might appear needy.
This can look like hope, which is deeply embarrassing if you’ve ever had your hope dashed in public.
So we flatten ourselves out and call it independence.
We don’t light the candle.
We don’t wear the dress.
We don’t reach for the good things.
We keep everything emotionally and materially… fine.
And then we wonder why life starts to feel so beige.
Scarcity Brain
Sometimes we grew up in scarcity.
Sometimes it was financial.
Sometimes it was emotional.
Sometimes it was both.
But the lesson is the same: good things don’t last, don’t get used to them, don’t ask for them, don’t expect them.
Saving becomes a way of staying safe.
If you don’t use the good stuff, you can pretend it’s still there.
If you don’t fully enjoy something, you can pretend it can’t be taken from you.
Waiting for Permission
Sometimes we’re postponing permission.
We’re waiting for someone to officially declare us ready.
Like adulthood comes with a ceremony and you missed it.
And maybe nobody taught us that the permission isn’t coming from outside.
It’s coming from us.
The Control Delusion
We’re all mortal and not a single one of us wants to be reminded of it.
Saving things is a tiny attempt to control the ticking clock.
It’s a way of saying, I’m managing my future. Real life be damned, I’m in charge.
But the future is not a loyal employee. It’s more like an alley cat. It does what it wants.
Saving It for Witnesses
Sometimes we save the good stuff for someone else.
For guests.
That holiday.
A partner.
The dinner party.
For a version of life where people are around and everything feels shared and shiny.
This one’s the saddest because it feels generous and gregarious.
But a lot of the time, it means we’re treating ourselves and our real life like it doesn’t count unless we have a witness.
Like we don’t get to be the occasion.
Let Today Count
I’m not talking about buying more things. Or expensive joy.
I’m not crafting a motivational speech about “living your best life” while holding a latte and pretending I don’t have problems.
I’m talking about something small.
This is about letting today be enough.
Let real life be worthy of the best things.
Because the truth is, most of life is ordinary. Not in a sad way. In a real and experienced way.
And if you keep saving the good stuff for a rare day when everything feels perfect, you’ll spend your real life surrounded by boring, beige backups.
Bland soap.
Dresses with creased hanger shoulders.
The dusty candle.
Balsamic that never pours.
You’ll be clean and prepared and “responsible” with all your unused treasures while time saunters past you and turns the corner.
Which feels like a bad trade.
A New Rule for Real Life
When I want to light the candle, I light it.
When I want to experience the good dress, I wear it. Maybe not to a gala. Maybe to the local library and for a walk around the neighborhood. It swings gently against my legs. That’s a lovely swish.
When I want to use the good soap, I wash with it. Not because someone’s coming over. Because I’m here and I love a luxe lather.
When I want to drizzle the Italian balsamic, I do it. Even if the meal is unimpressive. Even if the salad is the sad kind. Especially if I’m alone.
Because the point isn’t guests or special events.
The point is the day. The moment.
Stop saving your real life for later.
