Answer: Because I will wreck it. Almost instantly.
This morning I saw this sad, room-temperature butter packet in a break area at work:
It reminded me of the time when I was a kid and my extended family went out to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in our town (fondly known as a Supper Club, since this was Wisconsin in the 70s after all) to celebrate some milestone birthday for my Grandfather. I was probably four at the time, and a prolonged dinner with a group of adults was a real snoozer.
The only interesting part of the meal was a silver dish containing icy foil-wrapped butter packets that were meant for whatever was in the bread basket. I’m not sure if I ate any of the bread, but I hit those butter packets hard. I even found them so shiny and adorable (Like tiny presents!) that I snuck a few into my pocket, where they were discovered several days later by my mother in all their melted, oily glory. With one fell swoop, my best outfit – a kid version of a seersucker suit – was ruined.
This issue plagues me to this day.
First designer handbag that Spouse sprinted across Manhattan to buy as an extra-special Christmas present? Yes, I scratched the leather within days.
New sofa? Spilled marinara sauce all over it within the first two weeks. (And that was last year!)
New car? Giant coffee tumbler tipped over within minutes, but that paled in comparison to two kids grinding sucker bits into the floormats and kicking the seat backs with their filthy shoes over the following months.
And I am basically never allowed to buy pants in any color lighter than charcoal gray, lest I immediately sit in something mysterious and embarrassing.
On the plus side, I could have a PhD in Getting Red Wine Stains Out of Anything.