I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it’s 2008 now.

For the past decade I’ve been toying with the notion—and sometimes telling anyone who’s unfortunate enough to indulge me—that 1998 was my best year, the year I peaked, my time in the sun. The year when everything came together just as it should have. This is at once frivolous and depressing. But I have plenty of evidence to support it, and not all of it’s superficial.

The terms in which I usually make the argument, because they are the most persuasive, are musical. Nearly all of my favorite bands released albums in 1998. And really good albums, too: TNT. El Oso. Good Humor. Days for Days. Rufus Wainwright. Blue Wonder Power Milk. Overcome by Happiness. Try Whistling This. (Sketches For) My Sweetheart the Drunk. XO. Electro-Shock Blues. Music Has the Right to Children. Mutations. Human Being. Moon Safari. Decksanddrumsandrockandroll. Fucking Mezzanine. (As the previous list attests, I wasn’t the only one who arguably peaked that year.)

What’s more, I discovered a lot of music that had been released the previous year, or the year before. This often happens during the first few months of the year, when we finally get around to hearing December’s year-end picks and wonder, where the hell was I when this thing came out?. 1998 was no exception, as a host of terrific albums from 1997 (no slouch itself) trickled into the mix: I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One. Ladies and Gentlemen We are Floating in Space. The Fawn. New Forms. OK Computer. Autoditacker. The Unstable Molecule. Either/Or. Homework. When I Was Born for the 7th Time. I also saw some amazing concerts that year: Elliott Smith. Robert Fripp. The Orb. Hooverphonic. Saint Etienne.

And with my memories diffracted by the highly unreliable prism of nostalgia, I have spent the past decade assuming, even insisting, that 1998 was a year full of personal growth and triumph. Here, another list: I worked another summer at my all-time favorite, lowest-paying job. I read Infinite Jest for the first time. I got a haircut. I saw Armageddon AND Deep Impact. I lived in London for a few months. I bought a car. I had an awesome girlfriend—two, in fact (though not concurrently, thank you very much). I attempted some (horribly amateurish, hopelessly naïve) writing. I developed a robust appreciation for beer. I joined Speed Of Sauce. I lived in London. I had two girlfriends.

But if I dig a little deeper, I discover signs that I was also kind of a mess, as people in their early twenties tend to be. I was making progress, keeping it more or less together, about to finish college, but I was still a long way from any kind of real learning or self-discovery. I was probably a prick to a lot of people. I was self-absorbed and lazy. I had no practical skills or experience. I had a problem with oversleeping. I needed more than one haircut. My writing was horribly amateurish and hopelessly naïve. I developed a robust appreciation for beer.

Since I already live far too much in the past, and since a solid decade full of highs and lows and real (measurable, not just illusory) progress has now passed—I am ready to put 1998 and, by extension, my fetishization of it, to rest. The idea of peaking at age 22 is pretty pathetic, so I’m going to go ahead and stop entertaining that notion, long after I first should have.