I am Someone's Boomer

You might be old if…

There was a point when I realized that I had become the thing I hate. The establishment. As it turned out, I loved it. Yet, just as my peeps became the adjudicators of culture, it was over. For a moment, we were a small but powerful lobby. I recall seeing the film Spider-Man: Homecoming and was struck by how the music was my music. At first, I thought, “This soundtrack is awesome. The Ramones, The English Beat, Flock of Seagulls, Spoon!” These are Gen Xer touchstones. Then I thought, “Hey? What’s going on here?” Turns out, my nostalgia was the new discovery for the kiddos. Not fair! Get your own music, you entitled brats! Oh, they have their own music… but now they’re taking ownership of our music too? Growing up in the 70s and 80s, one thing that bothered me was the ever present Boomers who made television, films and controlled the music of our airwaves. It took me years to accept Bob Dylan's talent because I was simply too exhausted from hearing Boomers make a saint out of old guy who sang in an uninterpretable mumble.

It is amusing when someone “discovers” something “new” without realizing that isn’t new in any way other than to themselves. I just saw a post about someone discovering technical draughting pens, of the type I used in school and had been used by my professors before me, as the new great thing. They are not new, nor great. They clog like the Dickens and are impossible to clean. I do remember those moments as a kid when I’d learn something mind-blowing only to hear everyone else has known it all along. I once came home from school asking our mother if she knew the human heart didn’t look anything like a cartoon Valentine. When she laughed and said, “Of course,” my only thought was, “Why didn’t you tell me? What else do you know?” But… kids today (yes, I hear it), digital natives that they are, act like they invented the Internet. I have really bad news for you. Some Boomers invented the Internet, so, you know, blame them for its continuing decline.

Twenty-something years ago, I struggled to find jeans that weren’t boot cut or straight-legged, both of which basically look like clown pants on my skinny butt and stick legs. I was delighted when slim fit and skinny jeans became acceptable. In truth, I never wore “skinny” jeans, but their existence meant my slim or tapered-leg cut wasn’t the most ridiculous thing you could wear. Finally, I could wear jeans and still see my shoes. No longer were the cuffs of my trousers getting caught in my bike chain. Roll ‘em up in the summer, roll ‘em back down in the autumn, then cuff them above my Blundstones in the winter. Yet, fashion never stands still, and in the unending endeavour to recycle the past as our culture continues to regurgitate and eat itself, thus comes the barrel leg and wide leg trouser. A lot of folks look wonderful in these new takes on baggy pants. They really suit both the tall and the slender. For some, they look terrible. I am in that group. I now find buying jeans that look even passable on my humble frame quite difficult. Standing in a forest of barrel-legged be-panted mannequins, I heard a woman who was shopping for her kin ask a salesperson, “What is the current style?”, only to hear the answer, “Wide leg or barrel leg jeans. Only old… or, um, older people are wearing slim leg pants now.” That was it. This guy was like the spectre of death in A Christmas Carol (it’s a book, kids, read one), pointing at Scrooge’s headstone, except he was pointing at me.

Retiring this spring has perhaps hit me where it hurts most: my ego. I’m still not comfortable with saying “retired”. I usually tell people, “I’m not working right now, or in the future”, which while true, isn’t entirely truthful. Of course, the underlying truth is that more than my bank account, it hurts my psyche to think I’m old enough to consider unemployment as retirement. The realization of my age has come in little waves: being addressed as “sir” (Who? Me?), being offered a seat on the subway (No thanks, I’ll stand here, without a cane you’ll notice), or listing my medications on a health form and realizing I forgot one. The arthritic pain in my spine should have been a clue years ago, or perhaps the crackling sound my knees make when I sit or stand, not to mention the arrival of grey in all the hairs (yes, all the hairs). I suppose this spring when I rode my bike home, uphill, in the rain, with a 50 lb load in my bike trailer and thought, “I’m getting too old for this.”, was really the first indicator that my inner self was catching up with my outer self.

One day I listed my complaints about the user experience of a social media app to a “slightly younger” colleague (of whom, it happens, had a parent my age), and they responded, “OK boomer.” I was flabbergasted, aghast, and gobsmacked, along with several other archaic expressions of disbelief. The truth was, while I wasn’t a “boomer” demographically, I was her boomer. I was to her, what boomers were to me: old.