aubree
AUBREEVISION - Observations from the far side of the dial
the case of the phantom hope chest
decorComputers (yes, I have 2 laptops -- geeked to the max!) are making me mad enough to spit so I'm turning my focus away from uncooperative hardware and software to blog. At least I can always count on Mindsay!
Today, after buying the cutest little dish I have no current use for, I've been reflecting on the concept of the hope chest. I've started accumulating unique little things that are either too nice or too redundant to use in my current home (where our decor is post-student chic and marked by the bric-a-brac and overlap that come with shared accommodation), but that I can fully envision in the "big girl" home and life I'll someday have, complete with 2.5 children and fancy espresso cups. They're mostly fun little things I convince myself I just have to buy because a) They're unique and I'll never find exactly the same thing again b) They're things I could find later but currently on sale at such a good price it would be a crime not to buy them. I mean, come on -- it's an investment in my future.
Two of my cousins used to have hope chests and it seemed like such a quaint concept, stockpiling linens and china for some sacred future moment. Cousin M., at the age of fifteen or sixteen, even stockpiled spices in preparation for future domesticity. She used the hope chest in its most traditional sense -- not merely for adult life in general, but as a sort of domestic toolbox for setting up house with an as-yet-unmet husband. It seemed to me a bit strange to hoard beautiful things for a marriage that might be 20 years away or -- gasp! -- not in the cards at all, rather than enjoying them in the present. What I realized yesterday, though, is that I possess the psychological and material makings of a hope chest without actually owning the physical chest itself.
My "investments" aren't extravagant but bring me much pleasure as I tuck them away in a closet and mentally arrange them in my dream home. Here's yesterday's purchase, cheerful and perfect for holding all manner of bonbons:
Today, after buying the cutest little dish I have no current use for, I've been reflecting on the concept of the hope chest. I've started accumulating unique little things that are either too nice or too redundant to use in my current home (where our decor is post-student chic and marked by the bric-a-brac and overlap that come with shared accommodation), but that I can fully envision in the "big girl" home and life I'll someday have, complete with 2.5 children and fancy espresso cups. They're mostly fun little things I convince myself I just have to buy because a) They're unique and I'll never find exactly the same thing again b) They're things I could find later but currently on sale at such a good price it would be a crime not to buy them. I mean, come on -- it's an investment in my future.
Two of my cousins used to have hope chests and it seemed like such a quaint concept, stockpiling linens and china for some sacred future moment. Cousin M., at the age of fifteen or sixteen, even stockpiled spices in preparation for future domesticity. She used the hope chest in its most traditional sense -- not merely for adult life in general, but as a sort of domestic toolbox for setting up house with an as-yet-unmet husband. It seemed to me a bit strange to hoard beautiful things for a marriage that might be 20 years away or -- gasp! -- not in the cards at all, rather than enjoying them in the present. What I realized yesterday, though, is that I possess the psychological and material makings of a hope chest without actually owning the physical chest itself.
My "investments" aren't extravagant but bring me much pleasure as I tuck them away in a closet and mentally arrange them in my dream home. Here's yesterday's purchase, cheerful and perfect for holding all manner of bonbons:
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