Why I Think You're Like A History Book

I had lunch with a good friend from high school today, and I came away feeling a little nostalgic.  Not for high school -- you couldn't pay me enough -- or even for the life I had before husband and kids -- that's a whole different post.  It's because talking to someone who has known me well since acne was a major concern and before I was authorized to drive a car has become something of a novelty, but it's comforting to know that there is someone walking around in the world who remembers my past and shares my memories. It certainly makes me feel less alone to know that she is a witness to my own personal history and that it doesn't exist solely with me.  I don't feel responsible enough to keep track of it by myself.  I love and appreciate her for being my friend, as well as a keeper of my past.  

I think this idea of holding another person's memories is more powerful and necessary than we realize.  I can't scroll through one day's worth of stories on my Facebook news feed without seeing a quiz ("What's your 80s IQ?") or a list ("25 Things We Miss About the 90s") about the past someone has shared.  I often turn on the radio and hear artists sampling a song I sang when I was 15 on their current album.  There are entire TV stations dedicated to my youth (VH1 Classic).  It's a fact that there are people out there who spend their lives creating ways to draw us all back into our collective past.  It's become big business.  Why?  Because we all remember, and when we remember together, we feel like a community.  I love scrolling through something like "30 Reasons We Love the 70s" --  old school McDonald's playgrounds, The Electric Company, pom-pom socks; I have a whole board on Pinterest -- because, you know, I rocked it, but my favorite part is reading the comments at the bottom because I feel like these people are MY PEOPLE.  They understand where I'M from.  I realize this is not technically true, of course, but, for a minute, we are all AWESOME together.  

I didn't pay much attention to this idea until I experienced the loss of one of my own past-keepers.  Over 10 years ago I heard about the death of my first really serious boyfriend in a passing conversation.  I had dated this guy, we'll call him Greg, during my first year of college.  Because it was a really defining period of my life -- living on my own, going to school, being responsible for who I was going to be for the first time -- our relationship was a turning point for me.  I came out of it a different person than I was going in, and the path I've cut through life since then came as a result of decisions I made when we broke up.  I couldn't tell you if the time we dated was as important to Greg as it was to me, but, to this day, I see it as one of the most important relationships of my life.  When I realized that he was no longer with us, it was pretty devastating to me.  Not in just a he-was-a-great-guy-and-we'll-all-miss-him-way (which he was; don't get me wrong, I would have been sad at his passing at any time), but it really shook me.  At the time, I was (and am) happily married, pregnant with my third child and living a stable, content life.  I couldn't figure out why I was so upset over the loss of a guy I hadn't seen for years and never planned on running into again anyway.  It wasn't until I had a conversation with an old roomate that I realized I was sooooooo upset because I was now the only person on the planet who REMEMBERED.  I was alone in keeping alive in memory a pretty significant slice of my history, a huge piece that I valued and that had changed me forever.  Even if I never saw Greg again, at least when he was alive, that memory was walking around somewhere in the world with him, existing.  

I feel the need to clarify here. It is tempting at times to dig a tiny tunnel back to a place we used to feel comfortable and bury ourselves there, because, let's face it, sometimes the present stinks.  Maybe we're currently not satisfied with our marriages, our kids, or even just the fact that the only place we can find Tangy Taffy is on "30 Reasons We Loved the 70s" (I have a grudge).  The past is nowhere to live, mostly because it's really nowhere at all.  We can't change it, rewrite it, or restage it.  Doing something awkward and still thinking about it 4 hours later is part of the human condition.  Being able to move past it and chalk it up to experience at 4:01 is something I'm just learning to do.  Progress. I think the trick is learning what has made you YOU is worth remembering, not reliving. It's sacred, important, and personal to each one of us, impossible to recreate, but worthy of keeping alive.  How  lucky we are if we have people in our lives that can help us do that.  

Now, does anyone know where I can get some Wonder Woman Underoos?