“I love your plates!” Exclaimed my friend as I brought out a stack for my guests to eat their pizza slices on.

I smiled politely. “Yeah, they’re okay.”

The truth was, I liked these plates too. Kind of. I mean, I chose them, one night, shopping at Walmart with my mom. I needed something quick, in preparation of moving out on my own. They were the best ones there. These plates were fine, but they weren’t those plates.

Those plates I had adored. So much. I had bought those plates with my ex boyfriend at The Bay. I had spent months researching the best Kate Spade casual dinner plates. Those plates were the nicest ones I could find.

These new plates had been 50% off. I needed all the deals I could get, moving downtown on my own. There were tons of boxes of them scattered on the surrounding shelves, the packs taped shut then torn open again. My mom and I had to scrounge through them to find non damaged sets.

Those plates had been expensive. Way more expensive than anyone should pay for every day plates. But we could afford those plates. And I believed we deserved them. Those plates were kept behind a locked display case at the store, and we had to wait for an associate to bring us the perfectly sealed boxes from the back.

These plates aren’t perfect. They break. They shatter into pieces when they fall on the floor. But it’s okay. I don’t freak out, the way I would have, if they were those plates. It’s no big deal if one of these plates breaks because Walmart sells the individual pieces too.

Those plates weren’t perfect either, as much as I had wanted them to be. Those plates had a matte finish that looked nice, but allowed for a huge amount of chips and scratches within just a few weeks of their use. At least these plates are glossy. The problems with those plates were visible on the surface.

I used to think those plates were important. I was so proud of them. I loved them so much. But then I left. And I left those plates behind. And I could not replace them. Those plates were unsustainable. Those plates were from another life.

Those plates sit in someone elseโ€™s cupboards now, and serve someone elseโ€™s dinner.

These plates are just my plates, holding my pizza. And I like them better that way.


10 thoughts on “The Plates

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