I went out with young people last night, from my new digital workplace. I’ve never spent much time with the twentysomething set. I’m more a fortysomething/under 10s kinda gal.
The twentysomethings were fascinating. So lovely and switched on and interested in the world. They barely checked their iphones and didn’t Instagram anything the whole time we hung out together (or whatever the cool term is for socializing these days).
I had this mistaken impression that Gen Ys were all about, to quote Wikipedia: “a sense of entitlement, narcissism and rejection of social conventions”.
But they all seemed self deprecating and socially conventional to me.
OK, I got a bit tense when one of them moaned about turning 27. I did my best cackling crone impression and said “that’s nuthin’, I’m 45 next month.”
The boy in their party was sweet enough to say I didn’t look 45. But I so did. Especially since I’d decided to channel Maggie Taberrer with my attire – flats, animal-print leggings, voluminous shirt, chunky necklace, enormous red handbag … All that was missing was a turban.
The twentysomethings were celebrating Shrove Tuesday at Pancakes On The Rocks and invited me to join them. The 21-year-old goes there when she gets the midnight munchies. Pancakes hadn’t changed a bit since I was 21. The “Tabriz” crepe (“ground beef sauteed in a red wine and tomato sauce with mushrooms, onion and a delicious blend of herbs served on our special tomato sauce. Topped with sour cream and chives”) was still on the menu and the riesling was still only $4.50 a glass. Awesome! I was so thrilled I skulled two like they were water. So I may have become a bit look at moy, look at moy and blathery.
But the young people listened very politely as I reminisced about the olden days of print media. They also promised to teach me stuff, like how to Skype like a champion. Because gmail is apparently so 2007.
I have so much to learn. At 45. Go figure.