My Failed Career as a Time Traveler

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If I had a time machine, I can promise you one thing: I wouldn't be using it for anything historically significant. I'm just a guy, and the paradoxes I'd create wouldn't involve war or politics; they'd involve my terrible memory and my current wardrobe.

​Let's be real. I'd hop into my temporal cruiser, fire it up, and promptly realize I’ve forgotten where I parked it. I'd accidentally jump back ten minutes and spend the next three hours trying to convince my past self that I'm the real me, only to get punched in the face for being a weird intruder. That’s the first paradox: The Self-Defense Paradox.

​My first planned mission would be to travel a week into the past just to stop myself from eating that suspiciously old leftover tuna casserole. I'd materialize in my kitchen, scream, "STOP! It's a culinary time bomb!" My past self would look at the future me, who's materialized smelling faintly of ozone and old fish, and decide that the temporal journey has probably done more lasting damage than the casserole ever could.

​And forget blending in. I’d try to visit the Renaissance, thinking I look sharp in a pair of new jeans and a hoodie. I'd step out of my device and immediately be seized by locals who are convinced I’m a sorcerer, entirely based on my footwear. I'd spend the whole trip trying to explain that my "magical ankle support" is called a sneaker and that no, the plastic tag on my baseball cap is not a mystical amulet. I'd likely get burned at the stake, less for witchcraft, and more for the sheer rudeness of showing up to the 16th century without a belt.

​The ultimate, and inevitable, failure would come when I try to skip to the year 2500. Not to see flying cars or solve global warming. No. I'd be trying to jump ahead just to read the final book in a fantasy series that hasn't been written yet. I'd overshoot, end up in the year 50,000, and find a species of highly evolved, sentient pigeons who communicate entirely through interpretive dance. I’d spend the rest of my time trying to teach them the basic human language, only for them to look at my old, stained t-shirt and decide that my time—and my clothes—are simply too primitive to bother with.

​So, yeah. I'll stay right here in the present. It's safer for the space-time continuum, and frankly, my laundry basket needs attention.