Do you ever wake up one day and suddenly hate every single possession you own? Your clothes—even the ones that still fit—mock you, saying, “What were you thinking?!” You find yourself hating your picture frames (so pretty in the store), your dish towels, your formerly endearing alarm clock. It’s like you have (with no prior warning) inhabited someone else’s world, and that person’s name is: Mrs. Bad Taste.
Mrs. Bad Taste wears a space rocket long-sleeved t-shirt from the men’s section at Target. The shirt is meant to be ironic, but it is coming across as pathetic. Mrs. Bad Taste also has a fondness for slightly cracked tortoise-shell hair clips, as well as faded black sweatpants that have a weird bleach spot near the elastic waist and a small hole in the pocket.
Mrs. Bad Taste makes you want to trade in everything—every glass, every tray, every placemat, every sock, every lamp—all of it. You look around your house, the house you were very comfortable in—was it only yesterday?—and want none of it. Who bought this ugly throw pillow? you want to know, because it certainly does not look like anything you’d pick out.
You want to gather up everything and put it in a big box marked, Never Want To See It Again. In fact, you are feeling depressed and simultaneously industrious, so you scoop up some of the offending items and set them by the door in a big cardboard box.
That is right when your friend Angela rings the doorbell. “Ready to go for coffee?” she chirps, when you open the door, and then by her expression you can tell that she is not onboard with Mrs. Bad Taste’s current get-up.
“Gah! I forgot!” you hear yourself say apologetically, “Gimme two seconds to change.”
You zip to the bedroom and throw on something else: jeans and a navy sweater, topped off with a red baseball hat to cover the messy hair. Boring.
You reappear and notice Angela trying not to go through your Goodwill box. “What’s this?” she asks hopefully.
“Just a bunch of junk I’m getting rid of,” you shrug. “Do you mind if we stop by Goodwill on the way to Starbucks so I can drop it off?”
“Sure.” She smiles a tight grin, and the grin tells you she wants to say something else.
“It’s okay, Angela, if you don’t have time, I can stop by there later, no worries.” You kick the box out of the way and slide your black loafers on.
“No! No, it’s not that! I just … I just really like that picture frame, the one with the seashells, and if you’re getting rid of it,” (now her voice changes to a near-whisper), “can I have it?”
You take the frame out and hand it to her. “It’s yours! Of course you can have it! Take whatever you like!” You hold out the box enthusiastically, and you instantly regret it. She likes everything in there.
You now like everything in the box, too. Through the Angela-filter, everything you hated a mere 10 minutes ago in now quite attractive. The seashell frame is very nice, actually, you always did like it. You might’ve even received it for a graduation gift. You see Angela currently holding a set of marble coasters. Why on Earth did you put those in the box? You are having a serious case of Donator’s Remorse.
It was all a big mistake! Put down the Nordstrom woven tote bag with the red leather handles, Angela! Step away from the book on Art Deco Architecture! Unhand the black plastic beaded necklace!
“Hey, uh, I’m dying for that coffee,” you prod, “Let’s get going, shall we?”
You and Angela walk out the front door without the Goodwill box, and without your keys. You accidentally lock yourself out of the house. Oh, that is really too bad.
“I’ll just call a locksmith,” you say in a breezy tone to Angela, to which she responds,
“You’re in luck! Remember, you gave me a spare key when you went on vacation at Christmas? We’ll swing by my place and get it.”
You now like all your possessions after all, but you might need to re-think some of your friends.