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Broke Wife, Big City
My dad is in
the cheese business
By Aprill Brandon
There I was. Just minding my own business. Looking like a hungover
Cruella de Ville with my gallon-sized black coffee and my big dark
sunglasses and my resting bitch face. Sitting at an outdoor table
quietly attempting to write a beautiful and heartfelt rant on why I
thought Blake Lively was the devil.
When suddenly, the three of them plopped down at the next table. A blur
of bobbing, shiny ponytails and leggings.
And with a shudder of horror, I realized Yoga in the Park had just let
out and my personal space was being invaded by the Millennial Yoga
Girls.
Never one much for movement if not strictly necessary, I decided to
hold my ground and keep typing away, wracking my brain to come up with
synonyms for the phrase “just the worst” to describe ‘ol Blakey Poo.
But professional scribe though I am (with the tiny, tiny paycheck to
prove it), I couldn’t help but be distracted by their conversation.
“Like, I’m not impressed, you know?”
“Yeah, like, she would say ‘get on all fours’ and then tell us to sit
up and I was, like, wait, what?”
“Yeah, she was obviously a new instructor. Like, watching YouTube yoga
videos doesn’t make you a professional, Jessslyn.”
“Oh my god, that’s so funny.”
I was getting ready to get up and leave before my brain committed
suicide when I overheard the one with the shiniest, most bobbing-est
ponytail say “My dad is in the cheese business.”
A unique enough sentence in its own right, sure. But it was the fact
that she trailed off after saying it. And just left it at that. Like
her dad being in the cheese business was self-explanatory.
Granted, I missed the beginning of the conversation. But what
conversation topic can be reasonably concluded by the statement “my dad
is in the cheese business”? It was like that old Lewis Black joke about
“if it wasn’t for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in
college.” Her sentence just kept rattling around in my brain.
So, I reluctantly decided to stay and eavesdrop. For, you know,
professional reasons. Who knew? There might be a comedic goldmine here
to exploit. At the very least, I figured, I could live tweet their
conversation since they pretty much spoke in audible tweets anyway and
maybe get a few retweets by people who are even older and even more
bitter than I am that the world around them is changing without their
consent.
“Yeah, I just spent, like, half my paycheck buying a bunch of
[unpronounceable hipster food].”
“Oh, did you get it at Whole Foods?”
“Yeah. I mean, you know me. I like to buy local whenever possible but,
like, Whole Foods is Whole Foods…you know?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Oh my god, you guys are so funny.”
My fingers were practically smoking across the keyboard. I knew it was
wrong. You shouldn’t make fun of the young folk just because you’re old
now and grew up in a different generation. But I just couldn’t help
myself.
“It’s like I told him, ‘Joshua, you can’t, like, wash those jeans. When
they get dirty, you put them in the freezer to kill the bacteria.
Everyone knows that.”
“Ew. He washes his jeans? What year is this? 2009?”
“Oh my god, that’s so funny.”
During a lull in the conversation, when they were all taking the
mandatory post-yoga, pre-coconut water refresher selfie, I Googled
“annoying Millennials” to help pad whatever snarky blog/column/essay
these notes would turn into when I read something that stopped me in my
tracks. According to the Pew Research Center, the Millennials are
considered anyone born after 1980.
Which meant…
No…
It couldn’t be…
But it was…
I was one of them.
But, but, but…
I’ve spent my whole life associating myself with Generation X. To this
day I still love to rock purple lipstick and would slap my own mother
if it meant I could get my hands on a bottle of old-school Chanel Vamp
nail polish. I worship Nirvana and David Foster Wallace. Winona Ryder
in “Reality Bites” is my spirit animal. Hell, I still consider the word
“slacker” a compliment.
And now those bastards at the Pew Research Center have made me one of
the oldest millennials instead of one of the youngest Gen-Xers. And no
one wants to be the oldest of their generation. Because now instead of
having the excuse “I was born in a different time, kid,” I’m just the
pathetic, out-of-touch grandma that gets Grindr and Tinder confused.
My whole sense of self has been shaken. If I’m not a Gen-Xer, then just
what the hell am I? Besides the woman now frantically texting all her
younger friends “What is Snapchat? And how is it different from
Instagram?”
But worst of all is the realization that I’ve been cut off from my own
people all these years while I was busy shopping for second-hand
flannel shirts. I know nothing about us, other than the snarky columns
I’ve read from legitimately bitter Gen-Xers and Baby Boomers.
Guess I’ll just have to face it. I am a woman with one foot in each
generation. Rendering me essentially generationless.
Still, having never been one to back down from adversity, I plan to
embrace my new Millennial status with gusto.
Now, does anyone know where I can buy coconut water and if it pairs
well with copious amounts of vodka?
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
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