The Time Capsules Of Our Lives
I haven’t written anything new on Medium in about five days, which might be a record absence for me since mid-2021, in part because I went and visited my parents at (bougie alert) a house they were renting in the Hamptons. (Please note it was a modest home in Hampton Bays, not anything tony like Easthampton).
I was up there for about four or five days, if I recall. Aside from the relative indignity of seeing your parents age as an only child, it was a good time. More on that in future posts, I’d assume.
On the way back to Texas on Sunday, my wife and I went to Brooklyn and had brunch over there (bougie alert II). It was good, which you’d hope when brunch is about $80 and you’re not even drinking. Before going to LGA Airport, we decided to stop in Astoria, where I lived from 2008 to 2012 (late 20s/early 30s of adulthood).
We stopped at Sunswick, a relative dive bar on 35th Street with good beers. We were the only people there around 12:30pm on Sunday. The neighborhood in that area hadn’t changed much, aside from a new cafe/restaurant (Sac’s?) near the Kaufman Studios. On the way to LGA, I told my wife to drive our rented Hyundai Santa Fe down 35th to Astoria Boulevard. In the process, we passed 2808 35th Street, a non-descript brick building of six stories with a red awning.
I lived there with my ex-wife from 2010 to 2012. It was the first time I had co-habitated with a female.
That block has a lot of memories for me, obviously — both good and bad. We moved in around October 4, 2010. (What were you doing that week?) I had been living with two gay guys from Craig’s List for about 16 months beforehand, and I loaded everything in various laundry baskets and schlepped over there to the new spot.
So here I was, almost 13 years later to the day, driving past that same red awning with a different wife. It was a little bit trippy. I’ve had similar moments like that at other times, of course. I’m sure in some ways we all have.
Then, on Monday morning, I needed to log into Yahoo to check on a fantasy football situation. I switched Yahoo Mail to GMail in probably 2007, early 2008 if I recall. So while on Yahoo, I decided to delete a bunch of mail that’s been sitting there — about 27,313 emails, many from brands that probably think I died in a freak accident because I never open their junk — and after deleting it, I did a search for various people I knew in the 2005–2008 period. I found some funny emails, some recaps of a Hartford-area flag football league that we had, and a long note to my Teach for America girlfriend (written in October 2005, so about 18 years ago this fall) after we had broken up. That one was actually hard to read, because while it was well-written (pats self on back), I kinda came across as a sycophantic bitch in the letter. I think she’s married to a partner in a law firm now with two kids. It could be three. I really don’t know.
As I sat here reflecting on this stuff and realizing I will lose yet another fantasy football league this fall, I started thinking about the general progression of adulthood. Some people keep their friends and loved ones for decades — maybe some fraternity brothers, military guys, high school friends, etc. — and some people marry their high school sweetheart. Every journey is different.
But for a lot of people, life does seem to be divided into specific buckets or stages, largely based on:
Then when you factor in that a lot of people simply don’t prioritize friendship as much as they do partner/career/kids, we get to a place where “life stage” can last anywhere from 1 to 17 years, but after that specific life stage has run its course, it’s essentially a time capsule element of your adulthood.
And in many ways, even though we don’t acknowledge it openly, proximity is the essence of how adult relationships are formed, especially for guys.
I look back on some of my 2005 friendships and relationships and I do have regrets about how they ended or faded away — not crippling regrets by any means, but some. I look back on that relationship and if I recall correctly, we got in a fight near the end because she had been hanging out with some guy named Noah in D.C. Well, she’s married to a guy named Jon, and I’m pretty sure nothing ever happened with said “Noah,” who is probably a time capsule for her these days too. In late September 2005, my fascination with who or what this “Noah” was consumed a good chunk of a week for me. I literally hadn’t thought about him in 17.7 years. I doubt she’s thought of him for 17.3 years. Time capsules. Stages.
I don’t know per se if this post accomplishes much beyond what most people already know, but I did want to put some thoughts down on it.
OK, one more thing before I go — while in the Hamptons, I drove to an old house my parents owned from probably age 6 (for me) to age 16. One summer at the front of the cul-de-sac entrance, I had a relatively successful lemonade business, which is cool to reflect on because I’ve been mostly a joke at business ever since that lemonade stand. I drove right by where the stand would have been. Could visualize the entire thing intersection-wise, and hadn’t thought of those moments and pushing that sweet sweet yellow for probably 32 years. Life, as time capsules.
Your take?