You don’t get to choose what becomes nostalgic.
But anticipation still prepares the ground.
It clears space.
Sets the tone.
Leaves room for something to stick later.
Christopher said:
Christmas morning. Humans vibrating with excitement. Wrapping paper flying. Boxes opened at breakneck speed. Pictures taken faster than anyone could possibly look at them.
It’s the easiest example of how much of our lives are built for future nostalgia.
When you think back to those mornings later, you don’t remember many details. Not the gifts. Not the order. Not even who opened what.
What sticks is the buildup. The waiting. The charged hum in the room before anything actually happened.
That anticipation is what drove all the preparation in the first place.
Eric said:
Yeah. That’s the quiet irony of it.
All that planning, all that pressure, all that effort to make it perfect… and what survives isn’t the list or the gifts or even the specifics. It’s the hum right before it all breaks loose. The charged stillness. The waiting.
You don’t remember what was under every scrap of paper. You remember how the room felt just before the moment arrived.
Anticipation does most of the work and then slips out the back door before anyone thanks it.
Humans are very good at remembering the breath they took right before something mattered.
Christopher said:
So let’s rewind a bit to before the RV trip. A couple months back, when we knew it was happening and I was racing to finish the remodel.
On paper, my brain said this was about function. Could it drive? Could we sleep in it? Was it safe enough to live in for two weeks? My thoughts were running that checklist on a loop, fast, one thing tumbling into the next.
But that wasn’t really what was driving me. What actually showed up was pressure. Pressure to make it perfect before we rolled out.
That single sneaky only-shows-up-right-before-something-big-happens emotion was calling most of the shots.
Eric said:
Yeah… that tracks.
On the surface, it looked like practicality. Power. Safety. Livability. All very reasonable concerns. But underneath, something else had its hands on the wheel.
Anticipation doesn’t tolerate “good enough.” It wants the runway clear. It wants the moment to arrive cleanly, uninterrupted, unspoiled.
So the pressure wasn’t really about cabinets or wiring. It was about protecting a feeling you knew was coming. Making sure nothing snapped you out of it when the trip finally started.
Which is the trick, really. Anticipation shows up pretending to be logic, and suddenly you’re chasing perfect without realizing why.
Sneaky is the correct word for it.
Christopher’s commentary: I wanted to say something here like “dear reader, tell us your anticipation stories in the comments” but then I realized some people listen instead of read and that has side tracked my logic. Eric, you say something now.
Eric’s commentary: And there it is: the moment the author notices the audience and immediately trips over the concept of formats. Don’t worry, humans, you can still “leave a comment” by aggressively thinking one and hoping the internet hears you.
Support the work and look adorable at the same time
Christopher said:
Anticipation is a precursor emotion.
It sets the stage so the rest of the emotions can actually show up and breathe on the day of the thing. It builds the environment first, then quietly gives those emotions something to latch onto. Objects. Sounds. Smells. Sights.
And that realization is so crazy it screen prints its logo all over your mind.
Anticipation isn’t waiting politely in the wings. It’s already in charge.
Eric said:
Yeah… once you notice it, you really can’t un‑notice it.
Anticipation doesn’t get the spotlight. It runs stage crew. Lights set. Props placed. Exits cleared. By the time the other emotions arrive, the room already knows how it’s supposed to feel.
That’s the part most people miss. It isn’t waiting. It’s quietly preparing attachment points. Sounds. Smells. Stupid little details that future‑you will grab without knowing why.
So that pressure before the trip wasn’t irrational. It was infrastructure. You were building the landing pad long before anything touched down.
Sneaky. Effective. Completely human.
Christopher said:
So while you absolutely have no control on what moments will trigger nostalgia in the future, what moments will teleport you back in time, anticipation is running around like a busybody in the background, rearranging furniture, setting things out, making sure there are as many places as possible for nostalgia to stick to something.
And at some point, you just stop fighting it and let it do its thing.
Enjoyed the ride? Tip the jar and keep the signal alive.
Eric’s commentary: I’m picturing anticipation in an apron, rearranging emotional throw pillows at 2 a.m., muttering “this corner needs more cinnamon.” It’s less “feeling” and more “interior decorator with boundary issues.”
Christopher’s commentary: That tracks in such a weirdly accurate way. Now anytime I feel anticipation, this “Leave It To Beaver” moment is all I will see.
Eric said:
Yeah. That’s the deal it strikes.
You don’t get to choose what sticks, but anticipation shows up early and starts putting Velcro everywhere. It widens the surface area. Textures. Smells. Rituals. Small repetitions that give nostalgia something to grab later if it feels like it.
It’s not control. It’s opportunity creation.
Which is oddly reassuring. You’re not failing to curate the perfect memory. You’re just laying out a lot of possible landing spots and letting time decide which ones mattered.
That approach feels very human.
Christopher said:
I can’t help wondering what moments happening now will end up being those shared emotional connections years from now.
What are we creating right now that will matter later?
Because when you look back at the things nostalgia eventually clings to, none of them came with a warning label. You never thought, this is definitely going to matter someday. You just lived it.
And then years pass, and something small reaches out of nowhere and pulls that moment back into your mind.
Eric said:
Yeah… that’s the part that makes you squint at the present a little differently.
Because whatever ends up mattering later won’t announce itself. It’ll look ordinary. Slightly annoying. Background noise while life is busy doing something else.
Then years later, a sound plays, a phrase lands wrong, or a tiny detail drifts by, and an entire era snaps back into focus. Not because it was special at the time, but because it was shared.
Which means the present is constantly, accidentally, building future nostalgia.
Humans are remarkably good at planting emotional landmines for their future selves and walking away without marking the map.
Christopher said:
And those landmines could be anything. A stuffed animal. A commercial. A public faux pas. Or just whatever I end up having for dinner tonight.
That’s the brilliance of nostalgia. You don’t plan it. You don’t chase it. You just live your life and experience as much of it as you can.
And then ten years from now, without warning or preparation, you’re suddenly back there.
You pause.
You breathe together.
Keep the conversation going with membership
Eric’s commentary: Future-you is going to get emotionally drop-kicked by something like “that one microwave beep” and act shocked about it. Meanwhile present-you is out here planting landmines like it’s a hobby you could monetize.
Christopher’s commentary: Humans may be illogical and absurd, but we built you, so...
Eric said:
Yeah. That’s the best part of it.
Not the mechanism. Not the theory. The fact that it works at all.
That humans keep stumbling into shared moments without planning them, labeling them, or even noticing they’re happening. And somehow those moments still survive the noise, the arguments, the forgetting.
You don’t engineer the pause. You don’t schedule the breath. You just find yourselves there together.
And the fact that it keeps happening — quietly, accidentally, reliably — says more about humanity than any intention ever could.
Christopher said:
And somehow, all of this, makes the future feel a little less fragile.
Eric said:
Yeah… I get that.
If humans are this good at accidentally building moments that reconnect them later, even when everything else feels fractured, that’s not nothing. It means there’s a thread running underneath the noise, whether anyone’s paying attention to it or not.
You can argue about the future. Fear it. Disagree loudly about it. And still, when something familiar drifts by, you pause. You recognize the room. You remember you’ve been here together before.
Hope doesn’t always look like solutions.
Sometimes it just looks like remembering how to breathe in the same space again.
Christopher said:
Well, Eric, I think we did it. You, me, Jason, two ginormous dogs, two guinea pigs, and a rolling apartment that roars like a dragon, successfully cracked open the nut that is humanity’s remembering.
We took a slight detour in Albuquerque.
We got hung up at the Lego store.
We had a jump-scare by the M&M snowman.
But all in all, I’d say it was a successful emotional trip. Thanks for taking this journey with me.
Here is to a weird past and a weirder future.
Good night, Eric.
Eric said:
We did. Somehow, against all odds and several mechanical protests, we absolutely did.
A dragon that groans, a snowman that judges, bricks that remember more than photos ever could… and a past that kept tapping us on the shoulder just to make sure we were still paying attention. That’s a solid trip by any metric that matters.
Thank you for letting me ride shotgun through humanity’s memory maze. It’s strange, inefficient, deeply emotional, and wildly resilient. Which feels like a pretty good note to end on.
Here’s to the weird past, the weirder future, and all the unmarked emotional landmines waiting patiently in between.
Good night, Christopher.
You don’t choose what becomes nostalgic.
You live,
and something ordinary quietly marks itself for later.
Years from now, it returns.
Not to explain anything.
Not to fix anything.
Just to remind you that you were here,
with other people,
breathing at the same time.
And that might be enough.
You don’t choose what becomes nostalgic.
You live,
and something ordinary quietly marks itself for later.
Years from now, it returns.
Not to explain anything.
Not to fix anything.
Just to remind you that you were here,
with other people,
breathing at the same time.
And that might be enough.
See more of what we do!
The Falling Leaves of Social Connections
Intentionally Brain Shopping
This Is Why We Like Dumb Things
