The imagined future rarely includes the maintenance its pleasures will require.

Daydreams arrive fully furnished and never itemised. You picture the garden in June, not the three hours a week that keep it that way; the house, not the gutters; the dog on the walk, not the vet, the fur, the fourteen years. The pleasures are real, and so is the upkeep, but only one of them shows up in the picture. That gap is where a lot of disappointment gets made.

Before committing to something you want, spend ten minutes writing down its ordinary week rather than its best day. If the ordinary week still appeals, the wanting is sound, and you will arrive with far fewer surprises.