You already know that I procrastinate. And I have told you that procrastination brings its own rewards, like not having to mend or iron things that have been left so long they don't fit anyone I know. That used to be true, but I live alone now and my children have completed their vertical growth, anyway, so they don't outgrow clothes the way they used to. But I have encountered a new pleasure predicated on procrastination (sorry, but I love alliteration). Coupons.

I'm clearing out my Paper Desk, catching up on neglected correspondence (with computer-illiterate friends, and I have several). And I have come across obsolete discount coupons, expiring at the end of 2014, and some, even better, as early as 2013. It is with such a feeling of abandon that I toss them in the waste basket for recycling. They don't owe me anything, nor I them, not even a spasm of guilt.

The one thing I cannot toss, of course, is a note to myself. Several notes begin with "I cannot go anywhere without paper..." and there follows a date, a time, and usually, the name of the place where I am writing. It might be a clinic waiting room, an airport lounge or, most frequently, a coffee shop, waiting for a friend. (I'm always early, having allowed enough time to get lost.) I remember reporting on Joan Didion's collection of these bits of paper; she compared hers to a ball of string. It might look impressive but it's just short bits, nothing long enough even to make a cat's cradle (that's my expression, not hers). So I don't throw out my paper trail.

But everything else has gone past its recommended date and must go. It feels good.

I used to think my life would not be complete without a star sapphire ring. Or a sterling silver hair-dressing set (basic brush, mirror and comb), or a silver tea service. Or an Electro-Lux vacuum cleaner.

Well, I got over the ring, and the hair dressing set.

I inherited my grandmother's tea service for a while: an ornate, full service, including the tea "slop" jar, tea pot and strainer, coffee pot plus a coffee urn sitting on a swinging tripod over a burner to keep the coffee warm, plus, of course, creamer, sugar, and so on - all in sterling silver with raised roses in the design. I never used it. I had too many children and I didn't throw large tea parties, or even small ones. My son inherited it, too, (Mother said it belonged to the first son) and he sold it on consignment and got stiffed. Small Claims Court declared him the injured party but there was no redress.

Now the vacuum cleaner....we saved 50-cent pieces until we had enough to buy a Eureka cleaner, a tank with a bag and a vacuuming wand, but not an Electro-Lux. My best friend's mother had three of them, one for each floor of the house. but I never did get one, just struggled along trying to keep things clean with machines that, as the Dyson ad goes now,"lose suction." I no longer want an Electro-lux, I'd sort of like a Dyson, but like its predecessor, it costs too much for me, and I don't vacuum much. Swiffers are easier on my weak muscles.

Eventually, you grow out of your wish list, and substitute new wishes, or not. Remember St. Augustine's line: "We do not leave our sins, our sins leave us." That's true of wish lists, too, I think. I remember a bit of doggerel from a Ladies' Home Journal magazine, two lines by a writer whose name I never noticed, but I remember it was a verse about a teen-age girl and her wish list: "Her social standing is in danger/Without the latest record changer." Lo, how technology has changed but how little has desire changed.

Be careful what you wish for. One or the other is going to go out of style.