There’s a yellow KitchenAid mixer in the corner of my counter that I haven’t used in two years.
It was a wedding gift.
My mother-in-law picked it out from the Macy’s registry, almost forty years ago.
She was so proud of herself for choosing “the good kind.”
It’s heavy. It takes up valuable counter space.
The yellow doesn’t match anything in my kitchen anymore.
(Honestly, I’d rather use my hand mixer for the few times a year I bake.)
But every time I think about passing it on, something pulls me back.
It’s a really nice mixer. I might want it again someday. What if I start baking more?
I know I won’t. But I think it anyway.
Last winter, I stood in front of it and tried to picture handing it to a young couple who’d actually love it.
A woman in her thirties, just starting out.
I couldn’t do it.
I lifted the heavy thing, set it back on the counter, and walked into the next room.
It’s still there.
For a long time, I thought I was just sentimental. Or weak-willed.
Then I read about something called the endowment effect.
And it changed how I look at every object in my house.