Rose-Colored Manolo Blahniks
We all have them. The sensory experiences that transport us back in time and envelop us in the warm embrace of reminiscence. The taste of a family recipe, the smell of an old perfume, the ballad of a first love — happy memories are conjured in an instant. But is this sentimental recollection the only power of nostalgia? Or might this distinct yet universal experience actually have something to teach us about the present?
The other day, I heard the Sex and the City theme song for the first time in months. After just a couple of the iconic opening’s groovy piano notes, clock hands felt as if they were whirling backwards. By the final xylophone run, I could practically see myself sitting on the couch in my family’s den last summer, planted in front of the TV for hours on end with my mother as she watched (and slept) her way through chemotherapy.
What chemo drained from her soul, Sex and the City rejuvenated. Carrie Bradshaw’s comedic commentary on the privileged problems of her cosmopolitan wonderland allowed us to forget our frightening reality. It felt nice to laugh together, to pretend our greatest care in the world, like Carrie, was a daylight robbery of our favorite Manolo Blahnik strappy sandals. Even though it made my weary heart overjoyed merely to see my mom (sick as she was) smile, I could never shake off a state of constant restlessness. I was consumed with the need to get to the next show, the next season, the next infusion. When my mom was lucky enough to ring the bell signaling her last treatment, I was not just incredibly grateful. I was beyond relieved. At last, we had reached the final episode in a long season and “life” could resume.
What I did not expect was that I would ever look back on that summer with wistful fondness. Sure, good times and valuable lessons were certainly interspersed throughout such a trying experience, but I fully anticipated and planned to pack away the intense fear, uncertainty, and stress of my mother’s cancer in a box ceremoniously shelved in the attic. Now, a year later, I feel a thick haze starting to spread over my memory, as if a fog has selectively wrapped around the pain of that summer, like a cocoon. Of course, there are certain terrifying moments I cannot and will not forget, but my recollection of the everyday angst is easing with time. I can’t help but grin when I see a pair of Manolo Blahniks and remember the days we spent in the fairytale world of Manhattan at the turn of the century.
How is it possible that such a horrible time can carry such sappy sentiment now? Well, it seems I have unwittingly donned a pair of rose-colored glasses. Looking back, I am better able to appreciate the positives that I did not focus on in the midst of the storm. Compared with the glow of the halcyon days, I find myself far less disposed to cherry-pick the good from the present day. Rather, I see myself (and many others) filled with a continual focus on the “nexts” — the next exam, the next semester, the next step — and the obstacles blocking our attainment of these “nexts.” Nostalgia thus becomes a great cruelty: we are too preoccupied with the future to enjoy the present, so we instead rely on retrospection for quasi-enjoyment of the past.
Carrie Bradshaw, lovable as she is, is rarely the paragon of a healthy mental state. Yet she might actually give us the answer to this nostalgia-induced heartbreak. When not consumed with reminiscing about her on-again-off-again relationship with the infamous Mr. Big, Carrie similarly searches for “nexts” — the next Vogue catalogue, next party, next Manolo Blahniks. Her character is, in part, likable through her Bridget Jones-esque mirroring of relatable human cognitive traps.
In each episode, though, Carrie narrates her fictional newspaper column explaining the events of the show in the context of a particular theme. In doing so, Carrie presses pause on her natural drive for “nexts,” and instead looks at the life she is leading in the current day. While Carrie’s takeaways are not always positive or wise, the practice of taking time to stop and smell the roses, as the conventional phrase goes, seems to represent the antidote to nostalgia. If our memory has the ability to select the bright moments from the darkness, perhaps by following Carrie’s lead we can learn to apply this skill in the present.
If I had stopped to consider, as I sat on the couch watching Carrie strut through Manhattan, what I might look back on with familiar warmth and fuzzies, maybe I would not have been so focused on getting to the “next” thing. I think instead I would have noticed how the sun filled the den with a warm radiance; how calm those days were beneath the fear; how funny Carrie Bradshaw is and how hard we laughed at her narration; how connected it felt to hold another person’s suffering in my heart so tightly; and how the opportunity to spend so much time with a loved one is priceless, even under the circumstances. I might have noticed these things then, so that I did not have to yearn for them now.
As the semester whirlwind kicks up and I begin to gravitate once more towards “nexts” (hailing the almighty To-Do List), I find myself remembering the lesson I learned, grounding in the little moments of the present that one day will transport me back in time: the woodsy smell of Tidewater Virginia, the taste of a Cheese Shop grilled cheese sandwich, the sound of a little biplane humming over campus. Just as characters and TV shows do not last forever (Carrie eventually bought her last pair of Manolo Blahniks), it never hurts to remember that people and times in our lives will not always be there either. Sex and the City taught me to savor life as I live it, instead of constantly seeking the “nexts” and relying on nostalgia to enjoy our fleeting existence in the rearview.