When I was growing up, one of my mother’s favorite expressions was “You never know.” We’d have to clean the house every Saturday, because . . . “You never know.” If we were in the midst of enjoying a wonderful meal, we had to make sure there were leftovers, because . . . “You never know.” Small pieces of wax paper were saved, along with brown string and empty egg cartons, because . . . well, you know.

I kept trying to understand what it was that we didn’t know but needed to know. It was certainly enough to make a child anxious. Maybe that was the point. After all, we did have fire drills at school, and we were in the midst of the Cold War—we were even taught to hide under our desks in case of nuclear attacks. Or maybe a meteorite was going to hit the earth, which was something that our third-grade science teacher, Mr. Funkhauser, told us could happen.

Maybe my mother knew that something bad was going to happen and we had to get ready. I used to ask her, but she would always counter with, “Someday you’ll see.” See what? What was I going to see?

I could deal with most of it, but I really had a hard time not being able to wear my patent leather shoes until Easter—especially since we had bought them in February and I had to just look at them every day. The only thing I was allowed to do was put Vaseline on them so they wouldn’t crack. Isn’t that a thrill? I kept begging to wear them, but my mother kept giving me the same answer—you know what she said, don’t you?

The thing that really pushed me over the edge was the underwear. She always bought me the most hideous underpants. She said that they were on sale and the clerk told her that they wouldn’t wear out. Well, I don’t know what the clerk thought I was going to be doing—maybe going into a mineshaft and not coming out for a month? Why did they have to be so sturdy? Why couldn’t I just have the kind that were pretty and feminine, with little flowers and lace?

Well, my mother finally had a weak moment and bought me a pair. I was ecstatic until she said the usual: that I couldn’t wear them often because . . . “You never know.” She added that they were going to be my “party pants.” That didn’t ease the pain. How many parties does a nine-year-old go to? It’s not as if I were a movie star or something. So the pants stayed in the drawer surrounded by their ugly step-underpants. I probably got to wear them twice. I still have them; they just don’t fit.

As an adult, I now have a much clearer understanding of what “You never know” meant to my mother and why she needed to say it so often. She and my grandparents lived through the Depression and World War II. These folks have been called “The Greatest Generation” due to their amazing resiliency. They were the product of a world in which the economic present was bleak and the future was scary. As a result, my mother’s ability to enjoy things fully was tinged with dread and guilt. For example, she had a wonderful set of hand-painted dishes that had been in the family since I was 14. We carried them home from a vacation in Bermuda and almost broke our backs, they were so heavy. They were a 12-piece setting, each hand-painted with a blue cornflower. Each one was different. Now, frankly, I think the whole thing was a little crazy. Who cared about the fact that each one was different? What was going to happen—were we all going to compare plates, and say, “Oh, look, yours doesn’t have a stem?”

My mother thought they were incredibly special. And why not? She’d bought them with her hard-earned money, something she pointed out over and over. They sat in the china closet, waiting for those special individuals my mother felt were deserving enough to eat off them. We, the village idiots, weren’t good enough to eat on these superior dishes under ordinary circumstances. Every once in a while she’d remind me that she was leaving them to me. For a long time, I really relished the thought. One day, two years ago, she asked, “Do you want the dishes?” I thought, You must be kidding. . . . My idea of dinnerware now is some plastic plates to eat takeout on.

I don’t think my mother was mean, and I don’t think she really thought her family was unworthy of the good plates. She was simply living the life she was taught to live. We all inherit a point of view from our families and our societies that, for better or worse, creates who we are and what we believe. We often inherit concepts about life but don’t really understand why.

One of my favorite stories concerns a woman who was in her kitchen preparing a roast beef for dinner. Her young daughter was watching her make the meal, and the girl asked, “Mommy, why did you cut the ends off the roast beef?”

And the mother told her: “Honey, that’s just the way you prepare it.” “But why?”

And the mother had to think about it for a second and acknowledged, “You know, I’m not sure why. It’s the way my mother did it, and I’m sure she had a good reason.”

“Let’s ask Grandma.”

So the woman called her mother on the phone and asked why she cut the ends off the roast beef. The older woman had to admit that she didn’t really know why she did it either, but she did it because that’s the way her mother prepared a roast beef. So they called the old woman, the child’s great-grandmother, who was now in her 90s, and asked her why she cut the ends off the roast beef before cooking it.

“Well,” the old lady said, “it’s because I didn’t have a roasting pan big enough to hold it.”

So many of us have inherited a scarcity mentality from our parents; or a mentality that says we shouldn’t celebrate and use the good china in our everyday lives. But like the woman who cooked the roast beef, we have to look beyond what we’ve been brought up with to try to find our own paths to a happy life.

Certainly, we need to save for the future, and not simply waste things or indulge ourselves with material goods we don’t need. But we should never wait to celebrate life only on special occasions. And therein lies the message of this book: We need to bring a feeling of celebration into our lives every day. We haven’t got time to wait. As I often say to my audiences and workshop members about the precariousness of life: “Nobody is getting out of here alive.”

When I make this statement, a lot of people laugh, but I also know they’re thinking, Why is she being so morbid? This is supposed to be funny. And yet, when we truly acknowledge our mortality, we’re forced to live in the present because we understand that that’s the only thing that’s certain. It forces us to focus on the things that are truly important, and allows us to put aside the things that aren’t. It reminds us that what we “awfulize” about today will pass. The slow checkout line becomes a walk in the park. The traffic jam becomes a time to hear good music. And two extra hours at work aren’t such a trial if you plan to be home in time to kiss your daughter good night.

We have a very short time on this planet, and we waste so many hours not really enjoying what time we have. So many of us seem to be waiting, waiting. . . . Have you ever asked yourself: “What am I waiting for? What needs to be done before I can do the thing I’m postponing? What do I need to have before I can do it, and why?” Or, “Who am I waiting to get permission from?” Believe me, no one’s coming to give you permission—they’re out having a good time.

Give It Away and You’ll Get It Back
My metaphor of wearing party pants is about more than just enjoying the things we have in the moment and not denying ourselves. It’s about recognizing that within us we have a lot to give that makes life extraordinarily special. We can show appreciation and concern more often, hug each other with gusto, be more forgiving, and love each other in more profound ways.

Unfortunately, we’ve gotten away from the spontaneous sharing of these emotions. My family of origin didn’t need books or tapes to help them identify how they felt; they didn’t need to buy greeting cards with special words to fit an occasion. People talked to one another, and they said what they needed to in person, without a great deal of fanfare.

Passion was rampant. Love was having Aunt Ignatzia pinch your cheeks and say, “Saporita” (sweet one). She didn’t go to the drugstore to pick up a card that said the same thing yet cost five dollars.

That generation didn’t have much money for lavish food, but they enjoyed their meals with passion. They may have had to walk a few miles instead of driving in an air-conditioned car and listening to a CD player, but they were engaged with their surroundings and said hello to the neighbors that they passed on the way. They lived a life of scarcity, but had inner abundance. We live a life of abundance, but too many of us live with inner scarcity.

Live a Life Filled with Simple Truths, and Your Party Pants Will Always Fit
Do you remember how, in the days following the tragedy of September 11, there was an incredible outpouring of love and search for connection? People came together in amazing ways: There were huge lines at hospitals to donate blood, and children were baking cookies and sending cards and gifts to the rescue workers and the families of the victims. People showed one another simple courtesies in a way that seemed extraordinary and, in fact, was extraordinary.

But, really, didn’t that just reveal that all of us, for once, collectively felt the precariousness and preciousness of life? We were jarred out of our oblivion and shocked into having to focus on the things that were really important. When the everyday stresses seemed petty, we had to pay attention to what life was really about: connection, kindness, empathy, and love.

I’ve worked in the field of stress reduction for more than 30 years, and I’ve helped tens of thousands of people find ways to become more relaxed, and embrace joy instead of anxiety and pain.

In the many years I’ve been doing this, what I’ve learned both from my studies and from the thousands of people I’ve worked with along the way is that the human ability to experience joy, a deep sense of satisfaction, is something much more in our power than most people realize.

We can all access simple truths that have been available throughout the centuries. We’re beginning to see that our society’s need to steep itself in the theory that “more is better” has led us down a path of feeling disconnected from others and ourselves. When we begin to integrate moderation, responsibility, good humor, optimism, creativity, resiliency, connectedness, and meaning into our lives, we embrace life with dignity and grace. What better way to have a truly amazing life?

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The above excerpt has been taken from the book Life Is Short—Wear Your Party Pants by Loretta LaRoche. It is published by Hay House and available at all bookstores or online at: www.hayhouse.com