Ever wondered why almost anything you buy comes with a year long warranty?

I mean, it’s clearly not the most reassuring part of buying a product – yes, I’ll buy this flat screen TV, would I like the one year warranty? Why? Do you expect your product to go bust or maybe fall off the wall in a year?

The logic of buying a ONE year insurance policy on an expensive piece of equipment has always mistified me, so I’ve never bought it. Consequently, everything usually “mysteriously” dies around 11 months (looking at you old MP3 player who broke me heart, also, computer – you better not be thinking of giving up the ghost). 

On the flip side, I’m sure if I did pay $55.99 for a warranty, everything would start to die around the 357 day mark. 

As my year comes to a close, so many things have started falling apart it’s like my luggage knows it needs to lose a few pounds in anticipation of carrying Christmas presents (selfishly, mainly to myself) back. It automatically put itself on Weight Watchers and at the same time signed up for a class in Minimalism and is just shedding things like a golden retriever in the summer. 

THE “THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE, YOU’LL BE MISSED” LIST

• Sunglasses: I’m not sure what happened, we’d been together for years, your big funky yellow and purple frames made people think I was “slightly cool” and also “unaware of my head size,” but last week you collapsed. Your frame gave up and said, “our time together has been great, but you need to see out of someone else now”
• Cargo Pants: I know what happened to you, you weren’t quite prepared to handle my proportions over such a long distance. I tried stitching you up (three times!) But now it’s time to face facts, you seem to have self-sacrificed yourself so that people won’t make fun of me for wearing cargo pants back in the States, it is very thoughtful of you – RIP. 
• Leather Hand Bag: The other night at dinner you tried to make a run for it, your strap just broke. I’m not writing you a thank you letter yet, because I refuse to believe that this is the end – I’ve sent you to a repair shop, our parting is only temporary. 
• Sneakers: You literally got filled with cement and buried yourself, I’m not sure anything has left me so definitively. 
• Hiking Shoes: You are hanging on by a bare thread, you might as well be sandals for the amount of socks I can see. I’m really hoping you can make it another week because unless I find a replacement I’m flying home to Seattle, in the winter, in a summer dress, a pair of socks and flip-flops. If you can’t make it, I cannot thank you enough for getting me through a whole year of (thousands?) miles. You’ve been the best.

If I believed in signs, everything breaking would be a sign that it is time to go home – see you soon mulled wine and cookies.