Nostalgia used to be a private feeling. Now it is a product category with distressed denim and a launch calendar.
Nostalgia used to visit quietly. Now it arrives with a marketing plan.
You cannot buy a sweater, watch a television show, or enter a coffee shop bathroom without being gently informed that the past was better, simpler, and available in three colors. The old days are no longer behind us. They are in front of us, on a display table, folded badly but priced with confidence.
The 1990s, in particular, have returned with the energy of someone who left a jacket at your house and now feels entitled to your refrigerator.
Everywhere I look, there they are: the fonts, the sneakers, the music, the jeans that seem less “relaxed fit” than “emotionally unavailable.” Entire brands are now built around the phrase “remember this?” which is dangerous because I do remember this. I was there. I wore the shirts. I survived the snacks. I watched adults explain the internet as if it were a polite fax machine with ambition.
And yet, somehow, the decade has been reissued. Not revived. Reissued. Like a commemorative plate.
This is not nostalgia as memory. This is nostalgia as municipal planning. We are not reminiscing about the past; we are zoning for it. Somewhere, a committee has decided that every person between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-two must be handed a flannel shirt and made to feel something near a food court.
According to a study I commissioned of myself while standing in a store that smelled faintly of denim and moral uncertainty, 87 percent of all current products are now designed to trigger the sentence, “I think I had one of these.” The remaining 13 percent are phone chargers, which will become nostalgic by Thursday.
I understand the appeal. The present is a bit much. Every morning the world places a clipboard in front of us and asks for additional documentation. The past, by contrast, seems calm. It has fewer passwords. It does not ask you to verify that you are not a robot by identifying crosswalks, which, frankly, has become a philosophical trap.
The past also benefits from being over. This gives it a tremendous advantage. Nothing improves an era like no longer having to live in it.
We remember the mixtapes, not the fact that making one required the patience of a medieval monk and the timing of an air traffic controller. We remember the malls, not the fluorescent lighting that made everyone look lightly interrogated. We remember being unreachable, forgetting that this also meant standing outside a movie theater at 7:13 wondering whether Dave had died, betrayed us, or simply chosen bowling.
Still, the past has returned, and it has demands.
It would like us to buy its shoes again. It would like us to watch its television again, except darker and with an eight-episode arc about grief. It would like us to admire its hairstyles, which were brave in the sense that small boats in storms are brave.
The strangest part is that nostalgia has become expensive. In the actual 1990s, a vintage T-shirt was just a shirt your cousin abandoned. Now it costs $84 and comes with a description involving “heritage,” “curated fading,” and “intentional distress,” as if the garment has been through a divorce but handled it tastefully.
I recently saw a pair of sneakers advertised as “throwback classics,” which is marketing language for “you once owned these and destroyed them with lawn mud.” The ad suggested that buying them would reconnect me with my youth. This is false. My youth had knees. My youth could eat nachos after 10 p.m. without convening a medical review board.
If we truly wanted to bring back the past, we would have to bring back all of it. Not just the pleasant artifacts. The slow internet. The mysterious printer errors. The emotional weight of calling a landline and having someone’s father answer. The absolute terror of recording over a family event because you needed the blank tape.
No one wants full-contact nostalgia. We want nostalgia with the difficult parts removed, like a historical reenactment sponsored by a moisturizer.
So I have developed a few rules for responsible remembering.
First, you may revisit a decade, but you may not move back in. This is how problems start. You stop by to admire a poster, and the next thing you know you are defending cargo pants at a dinner party.
Second, nostalgia should be portion-controlled. A song is fine. A playlist is risky. A themed weekend is a cry for help.
Third, before purchasing any object from your youth, ask: “Did I love this, or was I simply nearby when it happened?”
This question would eliminate half of all cultural revivals and several boy bands.
The truth is, the 1990s are not coming back. They cannot. The decade has other commitments, possibly involving a lava lamp and a dial-up tone. What has returned is our longing for a time when our problems seemed smaller because we were smaller, and because nobody had yet invented the phrase “personal brand.”
That is what nostalgia really sells: not the past, but the illusion that we once knew how to be a person.
Maybe we did. Maybe we didn’t. I suspect we were just as confused then, only with more corduroy.
Still, I understand why we keep looking back. The past is tidy from a distance. It waves from across the street, wearing a jacket we miss, pretending it has not forgotten the hard parts.
I wave back sometimes.
Then I return to the present, where my phone is demanding fourteen updates, my shoes are older than several coworkers, and the past is on my porch again, holding a mixtape and asking if my Wi-Fi has a guest password.
More from Harris Vexley
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