|My rubber ducky circa 1950 and a bottle from my 1986 England trip|
This morning, I was reading a cartoon (Cow and Boy) that started with Boy saying “I tend to live in the past. I can’t help myself, I’m nostalgic.”
I have, over the years, used a lot of different words to describe the non-physical me: procrastinator, creative, verbal, collector, common-sense, organized, and a great many more that are less flattering. Now I think I must add nostalgic to that list.
Much like I discovered at the age of 50 that I had been “a bit” dyslexic when I was a child (Mom didn’t seem to think I had any need to know, and in retrospect, she may have been right – no opportunity for excuses or self-pity), I suddenly realize that being nostalgic explains a whole lot about my character…and my whole life for that matter.
I have bored countless friends and fellow employees over the years with stories about my ex, my mother, my college years, and my travels. I cannot part with anything that belonged to any of my ancestors, and that includes that hideous cup one of my great-uncles gave to my grandmother. I reread my favorite books about every ten years. I have much-perused photo albums and journals from every trip I have ever taken. I’m nostalgic.
For the scientifically inclined, this appears to be a genetic trait. My daughter still has every note that she was passed in all her school years.
***In case you are curious:
Boy: “Heck, I was still wearing diapers when I was five.”
Cow: “Cuz you were nostalgic?”
Boy: “Well, maybe that was more cuz I was lazy.”