30-Second Word Whoop: “Reserve”
Possibly nothing illustrates delayed gratification better than stashing something valuable away to be enjoyed much, much later.
Squirrels get it. They scramble for what they need to survive for the day, then add a cushion of comfort — a reserve of nuts in some tree pocket.
Some things get better with age, the longer you don’t touch them. A private wine stock in reserve. An investment in reserves. Futures.
There’s a holding back, a restraint, maturity required to make what’s in reserve count. Then … prepare to lay claim to the finest stuff in life — the best table at a restaurant, the best seats in a theater — only with a reservation. Supply some collateral first: a ticket you’ve paid dearly for, a promise to spend freely on the establishment’s “Gran Reserva,” Spanish or Portuguese wine that is regulated and certified to have aged at least five years (two in the cask, three in the bottle). Once you have that reservation, look forward to not holding back. Whether it’s dinner at 8, or the in-room hot tub with the Vintage Hotel’s honeymoon suite.
I say without reservation that the Federal Reserve is something of a contradiction. It jumps in and acts, allegedly on behalf of the people. Likewise reservists. We save them for a rainy day, but when bombs start raining down, we call on their reserve of energy, hoping their battle mettle isn’t rusty.
What if reservists re-serve? Re-enlist. Re-sign up. Love the contradiction in re-sign (back for more) and resign (quit). Just don’t try to re-serve that reserve wine. Tacky.
A reserve clause in baseball benefits the owners. A forest reserve might benefit those pack-rat squirrels.
I have reservations about holding my tongue.
Those counting the house stash can only hope that gamblers at an Indian reservation casino don’t hold back — rather, throw caution to the wind.
If someone seems reserved, no doubt he is likely to come uncorked later and blow the roof off the reservation.