ever had before. Our servers, who were every bit as excited to see our kids as the host was, carefully explained each course, which often required directions on how to eat it.
Two hours into our meal, our servers visited our table and said, “Set your forks down; it’s time to take a field trip.”
“Did you and Dad do this last time?” our kids asked.
We hadn’t. Will and I were grinning like fools, because this was new to us as well. We folded our napkins and followed our servers as we wound our way through the restaurant, finally arriving in the kitchen. The kitchen! We took it all in, trying not to gawk at the chefs hard at work all around us, and then the bartender showed us how to make our own cocktails in beautiful, old-fashioned shakers, right there in the renowned kitchen. Gin for the grown-ups, root beer for the kids, delight all around.
We left tired, full, and happy. Before we drove away, we captured a terribly lit photograph on a side street. That’s all we have to show for our evening—that and a keepsake menu conceptualized by flavor profiles that makes very little sense when I look at it now.
That dinner was worth every nickel.
Next Steps
1. Do you typically embrace splurging or find that you, too, cringe at the thought of uncharacteristic expenditures?
2. Can you recall a memorable splurge? What was it?
3. Are you reluctant to part with resources other than money—like time, energy, or routine? For what memorable splurge could you try involving one of those things?
4. Have you been dreaming about indulging in a special experience? How can you make it happen?
13
Small Shifts toward Simple Abundance
“I don’t feel very much like Pooh today,” said Pooh. “There, there,” said Piglet. “I’ll bring you tea and honey until you do.”
A. A. Milne
I walk into Trader Joe’s, list in hand, and immediately encounter the fresh flower display. This is easily my favorite part of the store—well, this and the cheese section—and I’m eager as always to see what’s available. I survey the day’s options: tulips in a range of pastels, spray roses and long-stem lilies, three different kinds of hydrangeas. Should I or shouldn’t I? Of course I want to, but do I really need fresh flowers today?
I debate my options, then finally add hydrangeas to my cart. But maybe I should have gotten tulips? I swap the hydrangeas for lavender tulips and choose some greenery to complete the arrangement. But do I really need it? I am clearly thinking about this too hard. No to the greenery; I can cut that from my own backyard. I put the greenery back. I circle the store, ticking off the items on my list, being careful not to crush the tulips. Do I really need the tulips? I get in line to check out, still looking at the tulips. Maybe I don’t really need flowers. If I’m not sure, I should put them back. I take them back to their buckets, then get back in the checkout line.
I pay, load my groceries into my car, then drive home. When I unpack my bags, I realize two things.
I forgot the salad mix I really needed, even though it was right there on my list.
And now that I’m home, surveying my clean but slightly bare countertops, I can see I chose poorly—I should have bought the flowers. Even though my groceries are purchased and put away, I’m still spinning my wheels about those flowers.
This decision—and so many like it—is of little consequence. It’s about a grocery run, a five-dollar purchase, a grace note for the kitchen counter. This one decision is hardly life-changing.
But then again, life is made up of moments like these. I waste precious minutes debating the inconsequential, talking myself out of things I know will bring me joy, things it wouldn’t hurt to say yes to, because though the cost is low, the pleasure is great.
And that’s not all. Instead of thinking about the task at hand, I was stuck in my unhelpful thought loop while my attention should have been elsewhere. Say, on the salad mix.
This kind of overthinking is a lose-lose proposition.
A Lose-Lose Proposition
I wish I could tell you my Trader Joe’s flower experience was a onetime thing, but that would be a lie. It’s the kind of thing I used to do habitually and still catch myself doing from time to time. My inner critic—who isn’t as vocal as she used to be, thank goodness—still tries to