It's hard at my advancing age to resist nostalgia for the good old days.
Especially when you're on Facebook with your former high school and university classmates, coworkers from dead newspapers and old drinking buddies from the press club.
I used to laugh at oldsters who put up plaques with old sayings all over their cottages and trailers along with little "kits" like the one with this label: Open in Case of Emergency.
Inside was a candle with the instructions to light when someone farts. On the candle was another wrap around slogan: Silent but deadly.
Lately, I have been bombarded with Facebook messages and posters that read "remember when?" that are pictures of old toasters, eight tracks, washing machines with rollers and other crappy gizmos invented long ago by snake oil salesmen.
None of those devices were good. The toaster burned your fingers -- and the toast -- and the roller-style washing machines caused multiple amputations in weary housewives who weren't paying attention. And don't get me started on Eight Tracks. I bought one of the damn things and they immediately became obsolete, leaving me stuck with a whole collection of 50s music that is in a landfill now, somewhere, on the Niagara Escarpment.
I consider myself a person who looks forward, not back because many of my memories are unpleasant. I don't remember the milk truck cheerfully rattling down the road; I do remember it arriving with diarrhea-inducing bottles of milk with phlegmatic cream on top and weird edible oil product that passed for margarine, the kind that Granny Crown let me squeeze until it became golden.
I also remember a bucolic life on the farm, but my memory has me getting stung every summer at least twice by honeybees being raised by my hobby farmist beekeeper Grandad, who thought it was funny watch.
Maybe it's because I'm a glass half empty gal, but the bad memories often overtake the good ones.
For example, in a moment of weakness, I joined a Remember When? group from my home town on Facebook, one of those everybody wants to post on, which means that my Smartphone is constantly dinging about this hotel or that, this building or that building. Yesterday, the group asked if we remembered who the doctor was who delivered us.
The first name that came up was my own doctor whom everybody gushed over.
This is what I posted.
I remember Dr. Hunt.
He committed my mother to a psychiatric facility and gave me valium for my skin condition.
I see nostalgia as nothing more than giving up on the future.
Old people believe that the future cannot possibly be better than the past.
In my view, if my crappy past was better than the future, you might as well kill me now.
Nostalgia has done nothing for our society.
It has given us Golden Oldies radio.
Concert tours by one hit wonders.
Events requiring dressing in poodle skirts.
High school reunions.
I prefer to listen to the newest stations on the radio rather than hearing a constant drone of fucking Mungo Jerry and remastered editions of American Woman.
I'm a Live 8.8 kinda gal, not a classic rock crone.
Needless to say, I've unjoined the Remember When? group.
I didn't go to my high school reunion.
And you will never, ever see me in a skirt made out of a poodle.