Twelve years ago, my nephew turned one. I was twenty years old at the time. If you’re good at math, you can decipher that I am now thirty two. And my nephew is now thirteen.
For my nephew’s first birthday, my sister wanted to do a time capsule. The family was asked to write my nephew a letter to put in the capsule, and he would open it when he was eighteen.
Going back to the math problem in the opening paragraph, we determined that I was twenty years old when I was asked to write said letter.
When I was twenty, I was a pretty good kid. I worked full-time, I was in college full-time (after work), and I kept myself on the straight and narrow.
But, occasionally, I smoked pot.
I wasn’t a “pothead”, but sometimes I burned one on the weekend, after a hard week of caring for snotty two-year-olds at the daycare (Yes, their daycare teacher smoked pot. Your child’s daycare teacher may do the same), or after a week of studying literature and cranking out essays for creative writing courses.
On the eve of said nephew’s birthday party, I decided to cut loose and have a toke. My best guy-friend was home from college for the summer, and we sat by his parent’s pool and smoked some weed and talked about Grateful Dead for two hours.
Then I went home and wrote my nephew’s time capsule letter. Because that seemed like a wise and creative thing to do.
I rambled about my twenty years of existence and the “wealth” of knowledge that I had acquired over that short time.
“Don’t eat at the Taco Bell on Highland Avenue. It is gross, and I once got food poisoning there.”
“Cats don’t like bubble baths.”
“There’s a Sasquatch that lives in the woods on the east side of Rudolph Road. I’ve seen it. Twice.”
Then I spoke of “My So-Called Life” and “Dawson’s Creek”.
“Never treat ladies the way Jordan Catalano treats ladies.”
“Joey picked Pacey because he wasn’t a cry-baby like Dawson Leery. Don’t be a cry-baby. Be Pacey Witter.”
The last page contained the scribbled lyrics to Pink Floyd’s “Time” and a smeared stain from my Cheeto-covered fingers.
I figured that my nephew would appreciate the letter when he read it seventeen years later. His aunt would help him understand the misunderstood, and Pink Floyd would speak to him in some deep and philosophical way.
I now realize that my letter is nothing more than an unimportant embarrassment. It is foolish and disgusting, and it reminds me of that YouTube video of a drunken DavidHasselhoff eating a cheeseburger on the bathroom floor.
I only have five years to retrieve the letter from the two foot hole in my sister’s back yard.
I only have five years to pull a Tom Clancy Splinter Cell, decked out in my black spy suit and night vision goggles, and remove this nonsensical nonsense from the time capsule that also holds a letter of wisdom from my mother, explaining the importance of God and love and family. I must retrieve the warped paragraphs that may or may not include references to Alice in Wonderland and how the White Rabbit was in search of hard drugs. And how the boy should never become the White Rabbit. The White Rabbit is bad.
I only have five years to redeem myself.
I only have five years to save my nephew from being influenced by his idiotic twenty-year-old aunt.
Let the search for “spy suits” on E-bay ensue.