v. 66 The Lost Art of Waiting for It: On anticipation, Cabbage Patch Kids, and the price of convenience
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
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There was a time when wanting something …meant something. This is very different than the low-grade, ambient wanting we do now. It’s not the scrolling through tabs at midnight and clicking "add to cart" kind of want. I mean the kind of wanting that had weight to it, the kind that required patience and negotiation and sometimes a level of maturity that no child should reasonably be expected to have.
Growing up, we didn't have a lot. My mom did what a lot of moms in my neighborhood did back then: she put our holiday gifts on layaway. For anyone who didn't grow up with this particular ritual, layaway meant you picked the thing you wanted, the store held it, and you paid it off in installments until it was finally, officially yours. There was no instant gratification, just time, and the particular excitement of waiting for something you knew was coming.
One year, around the holidays, my brother was turning thirteen and he wanted a BMX bike more than anything in the world. I, with equal conviction, wanted a Cabbage Patch Kid, which if you were alive in the early eighties, you understand was not a want so much as a cultural imperative. My mom sat me down and explained what I already understood: she couldn't do both at once. His birthday was coming and mine was not, and because I'd asked first, she entrusted me with the decision. She asked me, gently, which she should prioritize. I chose his bike without much hesitation because his was a birthday gift and mine was just a "I really, really want it" gift, and I knew the difference even then. He had that bike for exactly one week before he left it outside and it was stolen. I did eventually get my Cabbage Patch Kid. I named him after my brother, obviously, because that's the kind of sister I am and because some things deserve to be commemorated. Also, forty years later, I still hold this over his head so there’s that.
What I didn't understand at the time was that the waiting was part of the gift. The anticipation, the negotiating, even the small heartbreak of "not yet" all created a relationship with that doll that no amount of two-day shipping could replicate. There was joy in the wanting itself, a slow-burning delight that we've since traded away for convenience. Now when something breaks we replace it before we've even processed the full inconvenience of it, and our phones and bigger purchases are all disposable and utilitarian, none of it is particularly loved. We've optimized our way right out of one of the quieter pleasures of being alive.
I'm not suggesting we bring back financial scarcity as a mindfulness practice, but I do think there's something worth recovering here, some version of the layaway mentality that we can choose even when we don't have to. Waiting a minute before replacing something. Sitting with wanting something long enough to ask whether we actually want it. Letting anticipation do its slow, underrated work. The joy was never really about the thing itself. It was about the time between wanting it and holding it in your hands, and that's something we can still choose, even now.
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
This week’s microjoy: We've been enjoying a very Spring-like few days here in New Jersey, which feels especially generous considering we had a ridiculous snowstorm just last week. So I'm not taking this weather or this temporary sunshine for granted, and neither is Shaker. In what felt like no time had passed since last Spring, he immediately found himself back in his favorite spot, sunning like he never left.
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With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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