Buying dishes

image from here

When I graduated college (almost five years ago now!) I had been stewing on these words from a well-timed book called Running on Empty. One of the truths that stood out most from its pages was that I should be living, not waiting to live. At the time, that meant enjoying my classes, and not watching the clock. That meant, savoring spring break, not being anxious for graduation. It meant loving my lazy last summer, not stewing over my impending move and first big-girl job.

I'd like to say that I mastered that whole trick back then. Oh, but you know me too well. I was the toe-tappingest student in every lecture class. I was the girl who brought job applications on spring break. I spent many a-sleepless summer nights watching Felicity, eating ice cream, and making lists of all the things I had to take care of for the move and the start of my internship.

I was always, always waiting to live. Waiting to become this version of myself that I wasn't just yet. That summer, I bought out Ann Taylor. Women wear blouses to work, right? And slacks, and stilettos. That's what I thought. (Four years later, I'm back in the same office, and finally realizing that I can dress for work and maintain my personal style. Down with dress pants! Down with high-heel pumps!)

In those days, I was simply awaiting a grown-up life. I was dreaming about the house and the clothes and the mac book computer that I would have. I thought about the career I would tout, the car I would drive, the family I would have. Life in the moment was consumed with thinking about life in the future. And, I was impatient with living the time in between.

The one redemptive thing I can remember about that time is simple. It may sound insignificant to you, but at the time, it was a step in the right direction. You see, I had a handful of friends get married right after college. All of these friends had fancy new kitchens, shelves stocked with things most college kids had never before used. Food processors and emersion blenders. Nested mixing bowls and fancy knives.

As a budding home cook, I was jealous. I wanted to cook nice meals in my new life, you see. I wanted to have people in my home and make things with grown-up kitchen utensils. And I was more than slightly jealous that the married crowd got a push-start on building their kitchens. Here I was moving to a town with the set of plastic dishes I'd kept in my dorm room.

So, in one fine moment, I decided to buy my first set of dishes. And, I spared no expense on finding a pattern I loved. Salad plates, dinner plates, mugs, bowls, and glasses—a set of eight. Sure, it was an ambitious purchase for a galley kitchen with two cupboards, an apartment that only had room for a two-person dining table.

But, to me, it meant I wasn't waiting. I was taking the hope of the future and turning it into a now. And, what a beautiful decision that was. I can't tell you how many times I crammed new friends into my tiny apartment for dinner parties and movie nights. We ate off of my new dishes, and tried new recipes together. We made messes in that tiny kitchen and washed those plates dozens of times by hand.

And when I look at those pale blue ceramics, I'm thankful. Because it's been five years. And these plates have served countless family-style meals in my now cozy (and more spacious) home. They've been licked clean and passed around by new friends and old. And I'm just glad that I didn't wait. I'm glad I forked over the money I didn't really have to make an investment in the future that turned out to come a lot sooner than I ever thought it would...without the ring, without the registry.