I’ve never been one for nostalgia. At least not any more than the next guy. Granted, I like telling stories about past escapades from time to time, but that’s not nostalgia, that’s storytelling. And yes, I also occasionally exaggerate and outright lie. But nostalgia is much more than all that; nostalgia is a palpable longing for the past. And no matter how much I revel in my past, I never long for it. I never want to relive it.
Nostalgia has always seemed like something I’d get when I was older, when my youth was less remote and I could laugh about how stupid everyone dressed when I was a kid. It’s always been related in my mind with being incontinent and beginning every sentence with “In my day…” But then I look at my friend who has become obsessed with documenting every moment of our lives with her video camera in order to produce “a home movie that will make you all cry.” And then I see kids poring over the face book (the paper one from freshman year, not the Internet version, mind you) and laughing at how young everyone looked. Hell, there was even a 90’s party a few weeks ago. If that’s not nostalgic, I don’t know what is. But this is all a special kind of nostalgia, a kind of longing I like to call being “nostalgic for lunch.”
“Nostalgic for Lunch” is that phenomenon where you suddenly find yourself longing for a romanticized version of the ridiculously recent past. It’s when halfway through junior year, you suddenly wish you were in sophomore year again, where every weekday night seemed to end with a wild impromptu “Hey Ya!” dance party at 3 a.m. and the possibilities seemed endless. When the women were loose, the drinking illegal, and Eclectic didn’t have overly sensitive smoke detectors. But of course, there are things you conveniently forget to remember about this time: how depressed and insecure you were back then, how you took classes that were too hard for you and struggled with readings that went completely over your head, and how much you couldn’t wait until the next year when you’d hopefully have better housing.
And that’s probably why I’ve never been nostalgic for lunch. For better or worse, I’ve always remembered the bad times just as vividly as the good times. That’s why I’ve always hated playing the perennial nostalgia game, “Same Time Last Year,” where you try and remember what you were doing exactly one year ago. I can usually remember, but I often don’t want to. It’s no secret I spend most of my time being miserable and awkward. But I’ve always liked to think I am forward-looking, imagining what I’d be doing next year instead of dwelling in what I was doing last year. That I’m focused on trying to be a happier and better person tomorrow than on remembering what I was like yesterday. I like to say that I tend not to look back.
I guess this has a lot to do with my college experience. Things have always gotten better for me, or at least that’s what I’ve always tried to convince myself. I like to think that, in the long run, every year has been better than the next. I started out sharing a one-room double in one of the smallest rooms on the entire campus with a roommate who was arguably the worst roommate in the history of Western civilization. Granted, things could only have gotten better from there, but it’s a trend that’s stayed true over my four years here. At the very least, my DVD collection has improved immensely. And so, I’ve never been one for nostalgia.
That is, until recently.
I’m ashamed to say that I’ve found myself becoming the kid who always says “Hey! Remember when…” more and more these days. I’d like to say it’s because I have so many fond memories to look back on these days, but that’s not exactly the reason. It’s because I’m starting to worry about looking ahead. This time last year is simple: I was a junior in college. This time next year is more complex. I have nightmares sometimes about living with my parents while working a job I hate and regretting not going to grad school. The only way to calm myself down is assuring myself that I’ll probably just end up living in an overpriced apartment in an outer Borough, bussing tables and regretting not going to grad school.
And so, what I guess I’m trying to say is that graduation anxiety has finally hit me. And that I probably should have at least thought about applying to grad school before now. I’m finally scared of what happens next. I finally understand how comforting the past is. How comforting it is to know how every story ends. I’m finally nostalgic for lunch.
So hold onto your hats, folks. It’s going to be a disgustingly sentimental ride from here on out. But say what you will, at least I don’t have a LiveJournal. Yet.
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