Nostalgia

I know I'm a terribly, inconveniently nostalgic person, but today even I laughed at my own ridiculousness.

The library has these gigantic bins of old books that they have "withdrawn" from their collections. Being of no further use to the library, these books are destined to be "recycled." I'm a smart cookie, though, and I know that behind every one of those sterile terms, there is a sad, harsh truth. Those books aren't "withdrawn", they are "unwanted. useless. rubbish." And those books aren't "recycled", they are thrown out with the trash.

This afternoon I stopped by the bin and took a peek. All these noble books, living a life of service to the university, have been cast aside and forgotten. Noting how they were crammed in the bin, in sometimes the most uncomfortable poses, I felt a tinge of sympathy for them. Some have beautiful bindings, the kind you'd be proud to see gracing your bookshelf at home. Some have detailed illustrations. Some artist spent hours hunched over each picture in the book, wanting perfection, and now the book will be thrown out, the illustrations never to be studied again. Some of the books are torn to shreds, abused by the very students poring over their pages. These books gave the gift of information, and the students destroyed in return.

I have once or twice gone to the book bin in a sad attempt at rescue. I've pulled out the occasional book that looks like it might be re-purposed in some way. I pulled out a Russian book with yellow cracking pages and bug illustrations. That became wrapping paper. I pulled out a Chinese book with beautiful thin satiny pages and a book with intricately painted sleeves. But I can only save so many.

Unfortunately for me, my nostalgia problem is not very practical. I have trouble getting rid of that "Chiquita Bonita" shirt I so often wore in college. It hasn't fit me in eons and is honestly a little too "Woohoo...look at me, look at me" for me to wear again. I can't get rid of the shoes I wore on my first date with Adam, though I will likely not wear them again. I can't get rid of anything belonging to my late grandma. I most especially can't get rid of anything handmade. Maybe because I spend hours creating things...I just feel how much love was put into them.

Even my poor family has suffered at the hands of my nostalgic sensibility. Just ask my dad about one certain 1985 black and tan GMC Suburban. That beloved suburban. I would still gladly take him back. Just the other day I saw a similarly striped GMC behemoth, and I instantly wondered where old "Burbie" was and if he is okay. And I felt sad.

I always admire the ruthless "I can get rid of anything on the planet" attitude of my baby sister. I wish I were more like that, but I can't be. I'm realizing that this tendency of mine to be nostalgic is just part of me. I can make my feeble attempts and try to grow, but it will always be there, for as long as I am me.