I have this soap that my wife got me. It’s good-smelling soap, clean but also smelling distinctly *of* a thing (vanilla, for one, which I’m a sucker for), not that vague “clean” scent that goes with a lot of soaps. I like this soap.

And in the shower yesterday, I reached past it to use another soap, one I didn’t like as much. Why? Because the “good soap” was down to its last couple of uses, and I didn’t feel like burning them up.

On a certain level, this makes sense. Certain things are for special occasions, not for everyday use. That wasn’t how I felt about this soap for 90% of its lifespan, mind you. Up until it was almost gone, whether to use this soap or not was a decision to which I gave as much thought as which pencil I’ll use to jot this note. (The one closest to hand, please and thank you.) But toward the end, something changed and the soap became SPECIAL, it became Not To Be Wasted.

The problem, of course — and if you’re a weirdo, probably-carrying-undiagnosed-ADHD-but-coping forty-something like me, maybe you’ve already anticipated it — is that *I then fail to use it up*.

The problem becomes worse when I try not to buy boring soaps, but rather try different kinds in hopes of finding one I’ll like (and usually succeeding) — then another soap becomes The Soap Not To Be Wasted, and oh snap — now I have TWO bottles of almost-spent soap in the shower, and I *can’t* use either one TODAY, let me reach for this other one instead and SAVE THE GOOD ONES …

In other words, the bathroom is a disaster of nearly-spent bottles of soap. As it turns out, a problem like this doesn’t present in a vacuum. I do this in the kitchen too (how old is YOUR oldest jar of spices? Hmmm? Mine still has a 19 in the year, and I don’t mean 2019). And with pens. (Yeah, it’s almost out, but it’s got a LITTLE juice left.) And clothes. (Yeah, this shirt has a hole in it and I can only wear it for sleeping, but what, like THAT’S a reason to throw it out?) And …. I’ll stop there, but you can use your imagination.

Which, on a certain level, makes me a hoarder. But it’s not that I have an aversion to throwing things away generally. I LOVE throwing things away. Saying goodbye to a silly piece of junk is one among a dwindling set of Things Which Bring Joy To My Life. I SHOULD be bursting to throw these things away.

Yet I want to save them.

Upon reflection, it’s an issue of comfort, and attachment. That almost-spent thing is a tiny source of comfort. “Hey, this thing was nice, let’s keep it around just a little bit longer,” it seems to say. And after all, why not? Why not hold onto it for a little bit longer? Savor it. Keep it. For that special moment.

Then I realized I’ve done this with books I was reading, and writing projects, as well. I’ve raced through 350 pages of a 400-page novel only to slow to a crawl for the last few pages, wanting to prolong the experience even though I desperately want to know what happens. Because I don’t want to leave these characters, this story, this *experience* behind. I’ve drafted a story, done editing passes, then faltered on finishing final edits because, well, when I finish those, it’s *done*, and I can’t justify dinking around with this story anymore, I have to move on to the next thing.

In a bigger, scarier-to-think-about way, it’s a tiny way to live in the past, rather than moving on toward the future. Which is probably not a great way to live. (It’s certainly no way to keep your shower.)

In Star Wars: The Last Jedi, Kylo Ren had something to say about this. (Yes, I’m quoting TLJ on purpose because it infuriates a certain type of Star Wars fan. If this upsets you, please tell me all about it.) Rey was consumed with trying to find her parents, she had no sense of self because she had been abandoned and been waiting on them to return for so long. But Ren says, “Let the past die. Kill it, if you have to.”

Nobody’s going to use that soap up for me, and my wife won’t trash it on my behalf, either. (It’s man-soap. She’s scared to touch it, lest she immediately sprout a very gruff beard, develop an interest in smoking meats, and start daydreaming about Ancient Rome.) It will sit there, on the soapy shower ledge, staring at me, judging me, as long as I let it. The only way it’s going away is if I put it out of its misery.

So will that book I’m putting off reading.

So will that story I don’t want to finish writing.

So will that (thing) I don’t want to move on from.

When we look too much backward, we cannot move forward.

I used the last of the soap this morning.

It was no big deal.