This morning, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and realized the neckline of my dress was showing more cleavage than I was prepared to share with the world. A discreet safety pin would fix the problem in two seconds flat. (For the younger readers, a safety pin is a humble little gadget that looks like a bent paper clip with a spring-loaded clasp. It safely fastens fabric together.) So, I went searching for one in all of the drawers and cubbies where I keep little thingies. I found old keys to unknown vehicles, diaries or safes. There were a multitude of batteries that must have mated to reproduce such a large number. There was a tube of Super Glue, which I thought of using in a pinch, but I would have had to rip my dress off later. There were many little screws and picture-hanging doodads and a bunch of dried out pens, but not a single safety pin in sight. They seem to have disappeared, and their absence reminded me how many ordinary everyday items have slipped quietly out of my life.

The one thing I absolutely do not miss is the pantyhose I used to wear to school, to my job as a waitress at Newport Creamery and later to the office. They were supposed to make us look polished and professional, but for me they were a daily test of survival. Being, perhaps, the clumsiest person alive, I would snag them on a desk drawer, the latch of my purse, the car door and even my own fingernails. I carried clear nail polish in my purse in case I could ever catch a run before it expanded all the way down my leg. Later, I remember vainly purchasing the new “no-run” pantyhose when they first came out, only to be disappointed that instead of runs, big unsightly pulls would appear everywhere. Even though I still feel oddly naked without pantyhose on, the modern-day aversion to wearing them suits me just fine.

One of my favorite desserts as a child was butterscotch pudding. I was fortunate to attend an elementary school that served it often, back in the days when school kitchens still cooked things from scratch. Because it was simmered slowly on the stovetop, each little cup of pudding developed a delicate skin on top that delighted my taste buds and made the first spoonful feel extra special. Alas, those days of pudding skins are gone, because most puddings now come from a box and are whisked together in seconds with a mixer. They are smooth, and boring, and missing that old-fashioned charm.

I also miss Jell-O molds. I once had a green, two-piece Tupperware mold in which I would whip up a batch of lime or orange gelatin with a can of mandarin oranges and tiny colored marshmallows folded in. There was always something wonderfully festive about releasing the chilled mold onto a plate and watching it land with that firm, satisfying wobble. Eating it with the surprises inside was delightful, and I miss that experience.

The one thing I definitely do not miss is my old typewriter, on which I hammered out many a term paper for college. Our high school had a mandatory typing class, for which I am forever grateful, because to this day I am a speedy typist without having to look at the keys. On the typewriter, however, when I typed quickly, the keys somehow manage to jam together if I hit two letters too quickly. The ribbon always seemed to run out of ink at the worst possible moment, and, inevitably, a replacement ribbon was nowhere to be seen. If I made a mistake, I would have to use white correction fluid. Doing footnotes was extra challenging as I would have to anticipate where it would fit at the end of the page. The invention of the computer joyously improved my life; it is just a shame that it did not become an everyday device until I was out of college!

Life goes on. Some of the old things, like typewriters and pantyhose, have been replaced, but some of those small lost treasures still wobble like the Jell-O mold in my memory and make me smile.