Several weeks ago, I bought a Lego set. But it wasn’t just any Lego set: it was the best set you could have purchased in the mid-90s. And I bought it brand new. Mint. Sealed in box.
I had been tracking it for a few months, waiting for a good deal, and the right deal finally turned up. I think I had entertained the idea many times over the years, but just hadn’t done it for some reason. This time was different. There are only so many of those unopened in the world. It’s a special relic. I figured that today’s kids will never know what it was like to want that set, to have almost all the other sets in the series. And I knew that doing this would be, in ways I can’t fully describe, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It was stupid expensive, so let’s just say I don’t plan on buying another one. I plan to open it on Christmas. A little gift for myself.
I was rebuilding some old sets this evening, and the question popped up again: why am I so nostalgic? I’ve had minimalist ambitions for the past decade, but the thought of getting rid of my childhood Legos scares the crap out of me. When it comes to significant things from my past, I feel like Gollum. My precious! And other things I’ve talked about in this blog. Garage time with my dad, for example. Despite getting a new TV stand, I’m still holding onto the old one because that’s the one we had when I was a kid. It’s as old as I am. It would almost feel like a betrayal to all the memories to throw it out. My sister still has the table and chairs, my parents still have the lamp we used in the living room.
But you can’t go back. Of course not.
I started to journal about it. Your heart’s longing for something, was what came to me. I suspect there is a whole lot behind the answer, but since my mind is currently on Legos, the piece (hehe) that came to mind is, “I’ve forgotten how to play”. There is a very special hatred in my heart for the school system, which robbed me of joy every year I was in it. The only reason I did my homework was so I could return to play, return to the carefree joys of world building and imagination. I even said so in, oh, 8th grade, some sort of first-day question. I just wanted to enjoy my free time.
But they beat the shit out of you. They tell you what you need to learn, even when you don’t need to learn it. They tell you to be involved and active and productive. And you believe them because they’re smart and you’re stupid. And you let it into your heart that you are not a good little student unless you read, and if you read, you’d better remember, because there could be a test, and if you didn’t remember well enough, you’re an idiot, and you’re bad, because you didn’t do what you were supposed to do.
By the time I was out of high school, I was a zombie. Dedicated to excellence. Achievement. Busy, very busy reading. So busy reading, it interfered with my college studies. Play was for chumps.
I think part of why I’m so sentimental is that there is a deep bitterness inside, and I’m still fighting to regain my freedom.
When you grow up, society feeds you this lie that life is all about productivity, work, hard work (specifically), and being a good…hard…worker. “Well, I’m 70 years old, and I still go to work every day!” They beat the shit out of you.
It’s hard for me to enjoy a book these days, because it almost immediately becomes an obligation. Every hobby becomes an obligation. Time gets broken down into 15-minute increments, because efficiency is king (I have at least resisted this piece). Protestant Stupid Ethic. I’ve been setting mother fucking goals since I was in kindergarten. My “goal” now is to live a huge “fuck you” to the people and institutions that did this to me. Who made me into a robot.
It makes me want to melt in the corner, but I really do have to work tomorrow so it’s best to get some sleep. There’s a lot more thought and prayer to put into this. Why am I so sensitive to nostalgia?