I was saying hi to my grandma in heaven the other day, and told her that I’m still saving the good Tupperware she gave me for special occasions… even though I know that’s exactly what she’d tell me not to do.
In my defense, I was raised by a long line of women who had entire cabinets full of things too nice to touch. You needed a permission slip to use the good hand towels. The china only came out on Christmas and if the preacher was coming. And the good Tupperware? That was reserved for occasions of great importance—like when Aunt Sheila brought her new man to dinner and we all tried not to stare.
You know what I’m talking about. That one pristine butter-yellow container with the matching lid that clicks into place like a holy seal. It never held leftovers for us. No ma’am. We got the old Cool Whip tub with a cracked side and someone else’s name written on the bottom in Sharpie.
Why? Because we might need the good one later.
Later. That mysterious someday where everything will finally be worth using the good towels and opening the fancy jelly.
I caught myself the other day spooning leftover spaghetti into a plastic takeout bowl that had melted a little in the dishwasher. Meanwhile, the good Tupperware—the sacred one that doesn’t leak and actually stacks right—was just sitting there like royalty. Judging me.
And I thought, “Lord help me, I’m still doing it. I’m still saving the good stuff.”
And not just in the kitchen.
I save the good candles. The good pajamas. The good words. The forgiveness. The fun.
I wait to wear the bright lipstick until I lose ten pounds.
I wait to call the friend until I have “more time.”
I wait to celebrate until there’s something big enough to justify it.
I am living a life full of “special occasion” things… and very few occasions I actually deem special enough.
Grandma would be shaking her head right now. And she’d be right.
Because life is the occasion.
Eat off the good plates.
Light the good candle.
Use the matching Tupperware.
Wear the stretchy pants with no shame and tell your people you love them before the Jell-O sets.
You don’t need a reason bigger than “I’m here, and that’s enough.”
The good stuff was never meant to live on a shelf. Neither were you.
So go ahead—use the fancy container.
Text the friend.
Eat the dessert first.
And maybe, just maybe, let the Cool Whip container go to glory.
Because if we’re always saving joy for later, we’ll end up leaving it behind with the butter dish and the crystal candy bowl—still full, still pretty… and never truly used.