3 Keepers and a Regret is a recurring series on Retail Therapy on Substack where I ask people I admire to name 3 things they’d fight to keep — bought, inherited, stolen — and 1 thing they regret.
Travel writer and novelist Diana Spechler of Dispatches From The Road and I have a number of things in common, including working as reporters. We’ve both spent lots of time doing Bikram hot yoga and live in the Dallas area.
When I asked Diana to share her 3 Keepers, she paused, wanting me to know she’s not a shopper. Which made me want her responses even more. Her hesitation made me see how I’ve started to paint myself into a corner, suggesting “stuff” is the way out.
I find our differences even more interesting. She has eight Moth StorySLAM wins under her belt and is a Moth GrandSLAM champion. I have zero SLAMs. Diana is “always packing or unpacking.” Any upcoming trip kicks me into shopping and returning mode, convinced I never have what’s “right” for said trip. Different sides of the same coin — coping mechanisms for middle-age angst.
When life doesn’t make sense, I write about how we spend our time and money, often in insane ways. Diana paints the same picture in Consider the Schnitzel: “a trip is never just a trip; it’s a container for our obsessions.” Amen.
A trip is never just a trip; it’s a container for our obsessions. — Diana Spechler
Three Keepers
3 things you’d fight to keep — bought, inherited, stolen
No. 1 — THE MAN MUG
Last summer, my boyfriend, his kids, and I drove from North Texas to South Texas to spend a few days on the coast. One afternoon, to get off the beach and into air conditioning, we went to a paint-your-own pottery store. I wanted to paint something utilitarian, rather than decorative, so I picked the only mug on offer, which happened to be shaped like the face of a bearded man. I think he’s supposed to be Santa Claus, but whatever. I painted him purple with brown facial hair. For the inside, I chose a black glaze with irregular red spots. I developed an inexplicable attachment to what we all now call the Man Mug. No one else is allowed to drink from him. When he’s in the dishwasher, I miss him in the way I miss my best friends who live in other states. Sure, there are other mugs in the cupboard, but they can’t give me what he gives me.
Sometimes you’ll leave a dress you thought you loved hanging in the closet, tags swaying, until a couple years pass and you donate it. Other times, you’ll impulse-purchase something you barely wanted and use it every day until it disintegrates. Only time can tell if the relinquishing of money in exchange for goods was worth it. I never would have guessed that day in South Texas, as my boyfriend forked over $35 for my pottery adventure, that my Man Mug would become indispensable.
No. 2 — THE HOODIE
Ever since we started dating, I’ve been raiding my boyfriend’s closet for his sweatshirts. I’ve always loved a sweatshirt made for men. I love how I disappear in it. It is so big and I am so small! My boyfriend has particularly good taste in sweatshirts. His are all enormous, well made, and soft. Finally, I wore one so consistently, a giant black hoodie advertising some long-ago collaboration between a gaming organization and a music-gear company, it became mine, a.k.a. I started putting it away in my own drawer instead of his. I guess it was like when couples who live together for years get to say they have a common-law marriage. My common-law sweatshirt and I spent so much time together, the state (my boyfriend) was forced to legitimize us.
No. 3 — THE LAPTOP
Despite my ambivalence toward its maker, the only tangible possession I couldn't forego is my laptop. Granted, it's replaceable. In five to seven years, I'll buy a new one. But without my MacBook Air, or my former MacBook Air, or some future MacBook Air, how would I travel as much as I do? I love how it fits in my purse, how it's the perfect size for the airplane tray table, how we climb into bed together in hotels all over the world.
One Regret
now the regret
When I was 19, I met Dustin Hoffman at the Cheesecake Factory in LA and he invited me to a barbecue at his house. I was on a road trip with friends, and for some dumb reason, making it to whichever arbitrary destination we'd chosen to make it to by nightfall seemed like a solid reason to decline. This was one of many, many terrible decisions I made between the ages of 16 and 21. What was I thinking? Anyone I've ever told this story to has made me feel worse. We all know I should have gone to Dustin Hoffman's barbecue.
Also, I happened to be wearing the softest, most comfortable, most broken-in second-hand T-shirt I've ever owned. Where is that thing? I never should have let the T-shirt go, either.
Why I’m Still Shopping
When Diana and I met, in the flesh no less, she shared how magical her time living in Mexico had been. I would have guessed those memories were one of her keepers. It’s good I’m not a betting woman. She went with a $35 Man Mug that someone else paid for.
I recently painted a very boring petite coffee mug at a pottery place. I think a kindergartener would have produced something better. Now I’m stuck with this sad mug I’m too embarrassed to donate. Hers holds memories. Mine can’t even hold coffee because I didn’t realize the clay was still wet and I knocked off the handle. This is why I don’t do arts and crafts.
I now understand why I never get sweatshirts to look quite right. I thought it was because I refuse to spend $275 on a single sweatshirt. Nope. I’m just shopping in the wrong department. I’m going to stalk my partner’s part of the closet. Gary, I’m coming for your sweatshirts.
As for Dustin Hoffman, we’re most definitely not going to make Diana feel worse about it. The bigger question is, why was Dustin Hoffman eating at the Cheesecake Factory?
Thanks to Diana Spechler of Dispatches From The Road. She’s joining me live on The Return Window this Thursday at 7:15 PM CT.
The Return Window with Diana Spechler
The Return Window is what we have to get rid of. Three segments. Live. 17 minutes. Consider this a public service announcement in response to all the stuff Substack told us we need.
When life stops making sense, we shop paint ceramics by the seashore. More soon.
