My mom loves to regale me with the tale of how she bowled the best game of her life just hours before I made my grand entrance into the world. I mean, what a choice! (And let’s not even get into the whiskey sour she casually mentioned having during her pregnancy—maybe that’s a story for another time). I still cherish the “Most Improved Bowler” trophy she snagged. It’s a real gem, complete with a four-inch tall marble base and a silver figurine of a graceful lady in a skirt, mid-bowl.
As fate would have it, the microwave was also invented that week, and my mom won the very first one ever made. This beast was massive—about three feet long and two feet wide. It was loud too, so powerful that it would dim the lights when in use. That hulking contraption of countertop radiation was a fixture in our home from the moment I was born until my sister finally replaced it in the early 2000s. I was 27 years old.
Appliances like that shouldn’t last as long as it did. It’s frankly terrifying to consider that it was in our house during my formative years. I could blame all my questionable life choices on the fact that I loved resting my forehead on it while watching my food cook. But hey, my sister did that too, and she’s a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, so no luck there.
We tried to buy her a new one, but if you know my mom, you know she wasn’t having it. Not only did she refuse to let go of the old microwave, but my sister had to sneak it out of the house when the time came. I swear, my mom nearly cried when she saw its shiny, digital replacement—definitely not tears of joy. Imagine taking an old family pet away from a child and trying to replace it with a rabbit. That’s the look on her face.
And believe me, the microwave wasn’t the only antiquated appliance in our house. Sure, it’s the one I blame for my years of fertility struggles—but now that I have my kids, that’s a moot point. Our TV was legendary.
Remember when electronics doubled as furniture? Brilliant, right? Instead of making essential household devices compact, we had a 40-inch TV housed in a giant wooden cube about the size of a small car. We got it in 1978 when we moved to California, and my mom held on to it well into the 2000s. We only managed to convince her to part with it when we refused to pack it for her move to Florida. The remote was a disaster—only the channel up button worked. Cycling through 52 channels? Excruciating.
And my mom still brings up that TV. When she finally let it go, it went to a tenant named Jake. Guess what? He still loves it! He claims it has the best picture. That old TV had its charm, being able to swivel between the living and dining rooms. They just don’t make things like that anymore.
There was a point when I clung to my first Mac PowerBook longer than I should have. A 27-year-old microwave and a 9-year-old Mac are basically the same, right? I didn’t turn it off for three years because I was terrified it wouldn’t start again. And forget software updates! I was convinced they were just traps for viruses.
By 2012, I still had a gigantic Sony TV from 1998. Friends teased me mercilessly about it. Then one day, my husband surprised me with a flat-screen. Sure, the picture was nice, but it felt too clear—everyone looked a little haggard! I found myself lying awake that night, lamenting the loss of my trusty old companion.
With that clarity that only comes in the wee hours, I realized my attachment to that old TV was about more than just pixels. It symbolized a time in my life when things felt simpler. Welcome to adulthood, where nostalgia collides with reality, making it hard to let go of the past.
Needless to say, my husband’s shiny new TV spent years in his office while my beloved relic remained in the heart of our living room until I could finally say goodbye.
They just don’t make things like that anymore.
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Summary
The author reflects on her childhood memories, particularly focusing on the quirky appliances her mother held onto for years, drawing parallels to her own tendencies to cling to the past. The story humorously highlights the emotional attachments we develop to inanimate objects and the poignant realization that nostalgia often overshadows practicality.