I once had a drawer dedicated to “nice things”: luxurious candles and extravagant bubble bath; two containers of high-quality Greek extra virgin olive oil; that Aesop handwash, reserved for guests. A bottle of sparkling wine sat neglected on the kitchen counter, and in the bathroom, an expensive moisturizer remained sealed. I believed that life’s little pleasures should be saved for some vague “special” occasion in the future, rather than enjoyed in the present.
Then, I was struck by a vehicle. This incident occurred in May of the previous year, while I was walking along a tranquil street shortly after lunch in Bermuda, where I had been assigned for work.
I still can’t recall the moments prior or the hours that followed. I was on a bus, then off the bus; I crossed the street. Everything else is a blur. I have a faint memory of lying on the grass, looking up, with faces gazing down at me. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance with no clear sensory memory associated, except for wanting to talk to my boyfriend, though my mind couldn’t figure out who or where he was, or if we were still together. Then, I found myself in a hospital bed, with a nurse in uniform moving about me.
“You’ve been involved in an accident,” said Shea, one of the nurses. “We’ve had this discussion several times already – and we can revisit it. You’re fortunate to be alive,” she mentioned.
It was not until months later, after the police completed their investigation, that I learned what had transpired. I had been strolling along the side of a quiet, curb-less street when an elderly driver crashed into me from behind. He then drove off, seemingly unaware of the impact, despite the human-shaped dent I’d made in his vehicle. I had been thrown forward and laterally, over a stone wall that removed a layer of my skin, and then fell about 12 feet, landing on a playing field. It was believed that I landed first on my left foot, judging by the concentration of fractures. My legs, back, and diaphragm quickly followed, all battered and bruised. Based on the lump on the rear of my head, I must have hit that, too, which rendered me unconscious.
It’s best not to dwell too much, I’ve discovered, on all the factors that worked in my favor. My injuries were severe, but it was a fortunate escape: my bones have mended and the internal bruising has resolved. There’s no enduring damage to my brain. The scars that mark my legs may eventually fade, although I’ve become quite attached to them.
In the months that followed, I wish I could say I completely reassessed what matters; rejected materialistic priorities, and uncovered what truly counts. However, that’s not at all how I felt. For months afterward, I was immobile and in discomfort; first shaken, then frustrated and irritable. Yes, it was heartening to see my loved ones come together. Yes, the healing human body truly is a remarkable sight. Yes, I recognize how incredibly fortunate I am. Yet, by the time I transitioned from wheelchair to crutches to standing on my own, I felt as though the opportunity for epiphanies had slipped away. I feared I had missed the moment.
In truth, the only change I could pinpoint was a transformation that initially felt completely surface-level: I thoroughly emptied the “nice things” drawer. Heading to the shops? I’d spray myself with Bleu de Chanel. At night, brushing my teeth by the glow of a scented candle (Cos’s Cabane de Bois – exquisite!) became a routine. Preparing dinner? Time to uncork the fancy balsamic!
But now, more than a year after the accident, I’ve begun to perceive things differently. Allowing myself these small rituals has enhanced my sense of self-worth; minor pleasures no longer seem squandered, particularly when shared with others. Otherwise ordinary gatherings are elevated with a hint of occasion when light indulgence is present – a way to express how much I value those around me. It’s not about extravagance or nihilism, but the actions of an aspiring bon vivant on a budget. Moreover, I smell better now, and my salad dressings have significantly improved.
After my grandparents passed away, I visited their home in Liverpool and opened their “nice things” cabinet (one had grown up during the war and the other was a refugee from Eastern Europe – they were quite literally low-level hoarders). They, too, had bottles of champagne and upscale chocolates, all waiting for the next simcha. But the corks had crumbled and the perishables were long past their prime.
When eventually someone comes to sort through my “nice things” drawer, I hope it is found empty, having been enjoyed and cherished with the people I love. I still haven’t opened my single fancy bottle of sparkling wine, but it’s now in the fridge, ready and waiting.
