Keeping Track of What I’m Not Buying
I require more lives.
Unfortunately those four words bring to mind a (quite vivid) image of Renfield In Dracula; gobbling spiders and flies, attempting to wend their life energy somehow into his own.
N.B. It didn’t work.
Yet in order to properly keep track of what I’m not buying I must be able to have more lives. Duplicate lives. Or at least divide the one life I am currently living into distinct and (more or less, okay probably less) areas.
The last one’s my favorite; well, for the moment at least. I fluctuate. (I tend to whimsy and am really not to be trusted. Not completely.)
I’m mercurial. I change. Though at least I’m not boring, except perhaps to those poor people lacking a sense of humor.
In order to focus more on Experiences, below please find what I’m not buying.
I’m not buying the load of pea gravel for the back yard. To spread across that bit to the west, the part where Witt’s End is built upon bedrock and nothing, not even the voracious lamb’s ear which has been so successful in other spots, will grow.
I envision this pea gravel transforming dark rock, tan dirt, scraggly bits of weed and thistle into a French courtyard. It will encircle the fire pit (currently filled with weeds, which we will whack) where we will sit in turquoise and watermelon colored metal chairs (those I spray painted last summer); resting our mason jars of iced tea upon tables of natural and white washed tree stumps. Toasting marshmallows for smores and gazing at the night sky.
(I read somewhere using mason jars as drinking glasses, while once trendy, is passé and tacky.
I have always used mason jars as glasses. Trendy and passé can bite me.)
I’ve long wished for new dining and kitchen table chairs. Many of ours are “too well loved”, aka falling to bits. Some are deals which Scott found (Scott’s excellent at finding deals), but honestly aren’t what I had in mind. All are too firm, uncomfortable; particularly to a person with a back problem like me.
I envision eclectic, bright patterned, mix-matched chairs. Perhaps some light wood. Some entirely upholstered, some with upholstered seats only, perhaps a settee for one side of the dining table.
I’m not buying any of these.
Both the pea gravel and chairs lie beneath the division of House. As does paint for the mudroom bathroom and library. (Vertical stripes in one room, perhaps both. Sage, Cranberry, Cream.) A new ottoman for the family room, a slipcover for my lovely (and utterly ratty) Smushy Chair.
Smushy Chair is perfectly molded to my butt. There I have read countless book aloud to my kidlets and there my water with Rory broke fourteen years ago. He hit the world running less than an hour later.
For the foreseeable future I’m not buying books. I have thousands of books and have no plans to order another boxful or meander about a bookshop (shrouded in bliss) leaving with two heavy bagfuls.
At least until Christmas. Okay, perhaps Halloween. Though Cade’s birthday is in September. As everyone knows birthday books are non-negotiable.
We buy too much junk food (well, they do. I seldom go to the market. Why? I dunno. But I don’t mind.
Honestly the only things I consider worth leaving my house for are Travel and Christmas Shopping.
And therein lie another two or three, probably four pages.)
Currently we have potato chips, barbeque chips, tortilla chips, entirely too much soda, brownie mixes, and frozen yogurt in the pantry and freezer – all entirely unnecessary. (Just yesterday I discovered half a box of jalapeño poppers left over from New Year’s in the freezer.
I can’t stress how much willpower it took to throw those babies out.)
I’m not buying new clothes, or lamps, or boots, (well – maybe at Christmas), or “that seasonal stuff at Target ’cause look how cheap and cute is it” or lamps or china or couches or tables or dogs (we have six- this is a long story, eight pages at least) or pans or appliances or rugs or outdoor equipment or camping stuff or picture frames or anything on a “For Sale Facebook group” since the last thing I need is other people’s crap ’cause god knows I have enough of my own.
I’m not buying a new car or a new used car or a motorcycle or a boat or a bike or an overpriced designer anything (ever on that latter one.
Ye gods people, why?)
I’m not getting another tattoo or having anything pierced or my brows done or a facelift (but hey, ask me that one again in a few years), or any other pets, not even a goldfish. (Especially not a goldfish, as their life span seems to be about 36.2 hours.)
I wish for more lives in order to fully do, express, succeed, be in all the above areas and more. Of course more. Aren’t we all all about more?
I’m not buying board games or card or dice games, or dvd’s or cd’s or blu-rays or tins of crappy popcorn no matter how cute they are though the dogs can have the popcorn they love it; leaving me an empty tin to keep other crap I buy in. I’m not buying another martini shaker even though it was super cheap and a gorgeous shiny red.
I have never used the damn thing and doubt I ever will.
I’m never buying another pasta maker or a juicer or one of those foot massage things or Sephora makeup or anything at one of those botox/home-decor/makeup/kitchen-wares/shoe parties friends invite you to so they can “earn” free stuff while you eat fattening food and spend money.
Instead I’m pouring all I’m able into the Experiences division of this life. Buying movement, new views, fresh vistas. Rolling forward.
Letting the fire pit grow its weeds, leaving the library walls naked, wearing my old – and hopefully older still – clothes.
Wending the life energy about me into my own personal whirl wind. A breath in. Exhale.