I have a real thing about utility.
When I lived in the city, and spent all my time at my boyfriend’s apartment, it bothered me that my own four walls just sat there, waiting.
No one home.
Cups and cookbooks, sweaters and bags of loose-leaf tea just sitting still, perhaps wishing for a sign of life.
And now that we’re married, and have officially shared the same house for years, I still get a charge out of using our things.
All of the things.
. . .
I love to share meals at the family table. This means clearing away the numerous crafts and piles of mail and other bric-a-brac from the dining room, and actually setting down napkins and silverware. You know: dining.
I love to sit up in the guest room loft. Especially when it’s raining. This is quite possibly the coziest, book-wormiest spot in our house. So why save it just for family and friends? (starts counting down the minutes until she can sneak up there with a Steinbeck book and get lost in the glorious world of fiction)
I love to scrub dirty dishes in our farmhouse sink. Okay, no I don’t. But the sentiment behind it is real. I love the idea behind those greasy, soaking pans. Because it means we’re home. We’re cooking and laughing and drinking and watching TV together.
. . .
I guess what I’m getting at is that there is beauty in the used.
People love their new car smells and new sneakers (dude, I so do) but really, how long does ‘new’ even last?
Because even the newest house is not immune to the dust of the living.
So, my Dear Reader, I urge you to live your bloody life.
Embrace your coffee stains. Relish your ratty-ass slippers.
And savor every moment of being an eyebrow-plucking, pit-stained mess of a human being.
‘Cuz you’re delightfully you.
. . .
SnapDragon is a writer, mom, and owner of approximately 3,078 chapsticks.