The sound of most millennial pop-stars makes my eardrums hurt.
The words to rap music embarrass me.
I refer to anyone under forty as a “kid”.
I can tell when it’s going to rain because my knees hurt.
When I pass a mirror I think it’s my mother, coming back to haunt me.
My toenails are hideous. When I apply polish they become hideous painted toenails.
Prilosec is my friend. Beano is my other friend.
I’ve considered having a port-a-potty in every room of the house.
My dresses fall into two categories: knee-high stocking worthy and back-of-the-closet.
The only thing I own that’s a size ten is my underwear.
My pills are labeled ‘Monday’, ‘Tuesday’, ‘Wednesday’, etc.
Cosmetics fit into a shoebox but I need a storage unit for my junk jewelry.
The candles on my last birthday cake set off the smoke alarm.
I remember when the air was filled with Jade East, Hai Karate, and Windsong.
Butch Wax was not gender-neutral.
Tattoos were for sailors and loose women.
Penny candy was a penny.
I was hot in a different way. Now, it just means I’m sweating.
I wouldn’t want to be young in 2018. It’s too complicated. Today’s kids are sensitive, politically correct over-achievers. In my youth I was happy ‘getting by’ in school, I joked about everything and everyone and the folks I joked about retaliated by joking about me. There weren’t any rules about who was off-limits.
There was no social media to track us, no eye-in-the-sky to watch our every movement.
Still, I admire young people. They’re kinder, more aware, and want to make a difference. Most millennials wouldn’t dream of littering, wasting food, or accepting unacceptable politicians. They know everything there is to know about laptops and programming televisions, and seem eager to share that knowledge.
To paraphrase Socrates, who lived from 469-399 BC, “The children now love luxury; they have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders… They contradict their parents…and tyrannize their teachers…”
Every generation criticizes the next—it’s always been this way and so it will continue.
It could be that my age-related complaints can be summed up by another quote from Socrates: “The hour of departure has arrived and we go our ways; I to die, and you to live. Which is better? Only God knows.”
In short, I cherish my memories, even the bad ones. They are a part of me and me, alone. We all die. Until it’s my turn I’ll jot these memories down and pass them on, hoping that the next generation will get a chuckle or two and think fondly of the way life was a very long time ago.
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