Welcome to the antiquated reverie

I’ve always been obsessed with antiques and pre-owned things. Growing up, I rather’d my aunt’s hand me down than a new piece of clothing. Every year I go to Iran I sneak something from my Grandma’s house. All of my plates are from her set that she bought nearly 30 years ago. A great deal of my furniture is antiques from facebook marketplace (love living in the Midwest!). And whenever I go to a new city, I try to visit a goodwill or some other antique store. Tokyo thrifting was particularly fun, but Iowa antiquing was more rewarding.

if you want to see more travel content, just wait!

Nowadays, it’s popular to thrift, but growing up, we did it due to being poor and my mom used to tell me to not tell any of the other kids about how my clothes were from Goodwill. Crazy that now, kids brag about it! I’m glad that it has become such a big thing though. I find such a value in not only antiques but just things with previous owners. Even if it is something basic, I love knowing that someone else experienced it. I love knowing someone else stood in the spot I stand today, and made their way through it.

Which is what brings us here today. Lately, life has not been easy. It has been very difficult actually, and my solace has been talking. Mainly, talking to my aunts, my mom, and my girl friends. Talking to women of all ages, because they have either gone through this before, or are going through it now. Nothing I am dreading about right now is a unique experience. Our situations may defer, but our thoughts and feeling remain the same. Sure, my grandma never had to worry about her face being used in deepfake porn, but she had to worry about her family marrying her off to a much older man as a teenager. My mom may have never wondered about her sexuality, but she probably had to discover her body the same way I had to. My aunt who chose to not marry isn’t worrying about the implications of marriage at my age, but she still had to have difficult conversations with her partner on commitment, and so on.

There is a bittersweet taste in that. A part of it brings me comfort knowing I am from a long line of women experiencing pain like this and that I am not broken or crazy. My existence showed they prevailed. The other part of me obviously mourns the loss of joy these women felt. It’s nice knowing I have a slew of other women to turn to, but I simultaneously wish they were oblivious to this pain that I am feeling.

Growing up, I used to be told that I am very “wise” and “mature” for my age. And I was… Because I would regurgitate what my aunts and mom would tell me. I parroted what older women said constantly. If only I actually ingested what they said, oh well. It was always surprising to me that people would think the advice or the eloquent commentary came from a 10 year old. I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. I could say the words, but it would be a long time before I understood what they meant. I eventually learned my lessons, and now my advice to younger girls sounds the same. Because even though my experiences were unique in circumstance and details, they carried the same emotional intensity that the women before me felt.

As a result, my reveries, the many daydreams I get lost in, are nothing new. They are antiquated the same way a wooden house is. Go back in history, and there is a girl somewhere, maybe not writing a blog post, but sitting there with her head in her hands, dreaming of a sweeter life. She turned out okay, so will I.

See you in the next one,

Rayika