STYLE ADVICE • 7-MINUTE READ

I’m 79: Stop Saving These 11 Things
for “Someday”

Someday is a thief dressed up as a plan. I’m 79, and I finally learned what it was stealing.

Me, last month, wearing the dress I saved for three years. It took me ten minutes to get dressed. It took me three years to give myself permission.

Here’s something nobody tells you at 50: “someday” has a voice. It sounds reasonable. It sounds responsible. It says, wait until the kids are launched, wait until the trip is cheaper, wait until you lose the weight, wait until things settle down.

I’m 79 now, and I can tell you exactly what someday sounds like at my age. It sounds like a closet full of unworn beautiful things and a calendar full of plans that never got their turn.

So I’m not writing this as advice. I’m writing it as a confession. These are the 11 things I saved for “someday” — and what happened when I finally stopped.

The Someday Version of Me	The Today Version of Me
Saved the good china for holidays	Eats cereal out of the Limoges on a Tuesday
Kept the perfume for evenings out	Wears it to the dentist, darling
Waiting to travel “when it’s the right time”	Booked the flight in her slippers
Dressing well “once things change”	Dresses beautifully for absolutely no reason
Keeping dreams quiet	Writing them down where everyone can see

1. The Good China

For 30 years I owned a set of porcelain so fine you could see light through it. It lived in a cabinet. I washed it twice a year and put it back, untouched, like a museum exhibit.

Then my granddaughter asked me, “Grandma, when do we get to eat off the pretty plates?” And I heard myself say, “When there’s a special occasion.” She was nine. She looked at me like I’d said something very sad. Because it was.

A nine-year-old wanting pancakes is a special occasion. A Tuesday where everyone is healthy is a special occasion. The plates survived three decades in a cabinet; what they were really waiting for was to be used.

Now the good china is in the regular rotation. One plate has a tiny chip. It’s my favorite one.

2. The Good Perfume

I had a bottle of perfume — the expensive kind, the one that costs what a nice dinner costs — and I treated it like an heirloom. Two spritzes a year. New Year’s Eve. A wedding. That was it.

Here’s what I know now: perfume doesn’t improve with age. It goes off. It turns. That bottle I was saving? By the time I got brave enough to wear it properly, it smelled like regret and rubbing alcohol.

A scent you love is meant to be smelled — by you, on an ordinary Wednesday, in the produce aisle. Wear the perfume. The bottle can be replaced. The Wednesdays cannot.

3. The “Special Occasion” Dress

Every woman I know has one. The dress. Bought for something, worn once or never, hanging in the closet like a beautiful ghost.

Mine hung for three years. Three. Years. I kept waiting for an occasion grand enough. Then one Thursday I put it on to buy milk, and you know what happened? The cashier said, “You look amazing.” A woman in the parking lot asked where I got it. I stood taller the entire day.

The occasion was me. It was always me. The dress was never waiting for an event — it was waiting for me to decide I was enough of a reason.

4. The Trip You Keep Postponing

I planned a trip to Italy for 15 years. Fifteen. I had the itinerary in a folder. I knew which piazza had the best morning light. I could have given tours.

What was I waiting for? For it to be cheaper. For my knees to be better. For the perfect window. Meanwhile the window was open the whole time and I was standing inside polishing the glass.

I finally went at 76. My knees ached. The flight was long. And standing in that piazza at sunrise, I cried — not because it was beautiful, though it was — but because I’d almost missed it. Book the trip in your slippers. Figure out the rest later.

5. The Friend You Keep Meaning to Call

We all have her. The friend you think of constantly and call never. You mean to. You will. Next week. After the busy season. When things calm down.

I lost a friend I’d been “meaning to call” for eight months. The funeral program had a photo of her laughing, and all I could think was: I was waiting for a convenient time to hear that laugh again, and the time ran out.

Now I call on Tuesdays. Just dial. No occasion. “I was thinking about you” is the whole reason, and it’s the best reason there is. Don’t text. Call. Hear the voice.

6. The Beautiful Stationery

I have drawers of it. Cream paper. Deckled edges. Envelopes lined in gold. Bought for letters important enough to deserve them — and apparently no letter in 20 years qualified.

Then I started writing anyway. Thank-you notes. Thinking-of-you notes. A letter to my granddaughter telling her the story of her name. People called me crying. Actual tears, over paper and ink.

In a world of texts that vanish, a handwritten letter is a small miracle. Use the good paper. The words you keep meaning to write are the ones someone most needs to read.

7. The Money You’re Hoarding for “Someday”

Now listen. I’m not telling you to be reckless. I was a buyer’s assistant before I was anything else; I respect a budget.

But there’s a difference between prudence and punishment. I knew women who saved so fiercely for a future they never got to enjoy that they turned saving into a personality. The rainy day fund grew. The sunny days passed.

Keep the emergency fund. Absolutely. But take a slice — a small, deliberate, joyful slice — and spend it on something that makes an ordinary day shimmer. Fresh flowers every Friday. The good chocolate. The concert ticket. Someday’s account is full. Today’s could use a deposit.

8. The Forgiveness You’ve Been Drafting

This one isn’t about things. It’s heavier.

I carried a grudge for 11 years. Eleven years of rehearsing what I’d say, waiting for the right moment, the right apology, the right conditions. I was saving my forgiveness like it was the good china.

Here’s what nobody tells you about grudges: you’re the one carrying the weight. The other person put their suitcase down years ago. When I finally called and said, “I’m done being angry,” I expected a big moment. Instead I just felt… light. Like I’d set down groceries I’d been carrying up eleven flights of stairs.

Forgive while the person is still here to hear it. Forgive while you’re still here to feel the lightness.

9. The Thing You Think You’re Too Old to Start

Painting. That’s mine. I told myself for decades that art was for other people — younger people, talented people, people who started at the right time.

At 74 I walked into a beginner’s class, the oldest person there by 30 years, hands shaking. My first painting looked like a crime scene. My tenth looked like… something. My fiftieth hangs in my hallway and visitors ask about it.

“Too old to start” is someday’s favorite costume. Whether you’re 55 or 85: in five years you’ll be five years older either way. You might as well be five years older and know how to paint. Or dance. Or speak Italian. Start badly. Start now.

10. Waiting to Dress Well “When”

When I lose the weight. When my arms look better. When I have somewhere to go.

I spent years dressing for a future version of myself — buying things for the body I was planning to have, saving the good outfits for the life I was planning to live. Meanwhile the actual woman in the actual mirror was getting dressed in “for now” clothes, year after year.

Here’s the truth from the far side of 79: the body you have today is the youngest body you will ever have again. Dress her beautifully. Right now. Not as a reward for changing — as a celebration of showing up.

Style isn’t about size. It’s about decision. Decide today.

11. Your Biggest Dreams (Say Them Out Loud)

This is the one I saved longest. Not the china, not the perfume — the dreams. I kept them folded up small, like good linens, because saying a dream out loud makes it real, and real things can fail.

At 77 I told my daughter I wanted to write down everything I knew about dressing well — 50 years of buyer and editor knowledge. She said, “Then do it.” So I did. You’re reading the result.

Say the dream out loud. To one person. Today. Dreams kept in the dark stay dreams. Dreams spoken in daylight start making plans.

Do This	Not That
Use the good things on ordinary days	Save them for occasions that never come
Call the friend this week	Wait for “a better time” to reach out
Book the trip while you can enjoy it	Plan it perfectly for 15 years
Dress beautifully for the body you have	Dress for a future version of yourself
Start the thing badly, today	Wait until you’re “ready” (you won’t be)
Say the dream out loud	Keep it folded up where it’s safe

Isn’t this just permission to be irresponsible with money?

No — and as a former buyer, I’d never tell you that. This is about the margin, not the foundation. Keep your savings, your emergency fund, your good sense. I’m talking about the small, deliberate joys: the flowers, the perfume worn on a Tuesday, the lunch in the good dress. Prudence protects your future. Joy inhabits your present. You need both.

What if my “someday” things are tied to someone who’s gone?

Then this one’s tender, and I won’t rush you. But consider: would they want the china in the cabinet, or on your table? The people we love don’t haunt our beautiful things — they live in our using them. Light the candle. Pour the tea. It’s not disloyal to enjoy what remains. It’s the point.

I’m 55, not 79. Isn’t this advice for later?

Darling, that’s exactly the trap. I was 55 once, thinking I had oceans of time. The whole point of me writing this at 79 is so you don’t need 24 more years to learn it. Start at 55 and you’ll have decades of Tuesdays in the good china. That’s not early. That’s the jackpot.

How do I actually start? It feels overwhelming.

Pick ONE thing from this list. Just one. The smallest one. Wear the perfume tomorrow. Call the friend tonight. Use one good plate at dinner. Someday dies one small decision at a time — and every small decision makes the next one easier.

What if people think I’m being frivolous?

At 79, I can report: the people whose opinions you fear will forget your “frivolity” by next week. You will remember the joy for years. Also — and I say this with love — anyone who judges a 79-year-old for eating off the good china has bigger problems than your plates.

The real secret? Someday isn’t a date on the calendar. It’s a story we tell ourselves to avoid the delicious risk of actually living. I told it for decades. Then I stopped — and the strangest thing happened. The days got bigger. Brighter. More mine.

So here’s my wish for you, from 79 years of Wednesdays: stop saving the good stuff. Use the china. Wear the dress. Book the flight. Call her. The someday you’ve been waiting for? It’s today. It was always today.

— Agatha