You Talking To Me??

Now that we’ve gotten over being a Ma’am or a Sir, what can Baby Boomers expect from their juniors? You wouldn’t believe the bizarre concepts they have about us.

1) If you let your grey roots show, younger people will start talking very loudly and slowly to you. They assume that you’re deaf, stupid, and just a hair away from dementia. Do yourself a favor and spring for the Clairol.

2) When you complain to a manager about the outrageously sexist remark the supermarket checkout guy made to you, or the filth and garbage at the bottom of the NYSC pool, you will encounter a blank face trying to conceal the fact that s/he thinks you’re a crazy old bat. They really think they’re pulling it off. You’ll be shamelessly fobbed off, your statements dismissed as if you’re a weirdo nuisance—and they’ll try to pull that trick businesspeople use in power plays: they pretend they’ve been listening, give you the party line, and make a statement that sounds final, closing the “discussion,” as if they’re so busy and are about to go into an important meeting. If you’re not on your game, that trick’ll work, they’ll stand up, and you’re on your way out the door. Crazy old bat.

I’m a Baby Boomer. I refuse to cave. I can stare down anyone. Unless a manager comes at me with tear gas, I’m staying until I’ve made my point. I don’t fall for that condescending Millennial attitude. They can think I’m an obtuse old fart, but I’ve got their number. And I know how to go over their heads. 

3) Another joy of the Baby Boomer experience is that everyone younger than you thinks they need to explain everything to you. I know how to put air in my tires, pal. I know how to tweet, sweetie—I have two Twitter accounts. I have three blogs, bozo. I have two Facebook accounts and a LinkedIn page. And I use an iPhone. I also know how to work a lot of gym equipment. I don’t like to, but I do. 

4) Fashion and music are also areas that could use some diversity training. Case in point: I needed two outfits for a California wedding: one for the daytime ceremonies, one for the fancy party that night. The saleswoman came up with stuff my mother would wear. I ended up putting together outfits from my own closet, with new shoes: coral suede high heeled sandals and low-heeled black T-straps with silver sparkles—for dancing. 

And if you ever want to panic a Gen Y, head for the makeup counter at any store and ask someone to paint your face. They trained on Millennial faces; they don’t know what to do when they encounter lines. One woman who had been doing a good job on me (while wearing a concerned, pained look) gave up when she got to the last bit, and handed me the lipstick brush. It’s just as well; she probably would’ve given me crazy old lady lips: think Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane. 

As for the music: I’m not happy that Virgin Records and Tower Records no longer exist—I could spend all day in those stores exclaiming, “Oh my god, I can’t believe they have this record!”—but on the other hand, it also means I don’t have to be ignored by tattooed, black-clad dudes who think I should be browsing the MOR section. (For those too young to recognize that moniker, it stands for “Middle of the Road”—a repulsive genre of music that’s most often encountered nowadays in elevators and the dentist’s office. Think Robert Goulet.) It's a shame I’ll never get to see the looks on their faces when I ask if they have the new Teengirl Fantasy record, Nun. 

5) And then there’s driving. Guys in SUVs think that because they see a woman at the wheel who’s over 25, she’s going to drive 40 mph in the fast lane, and be an obstacle to their progress. They try to barge ahead of me in a traffic jam instead of waiting in line (I never let them), cut into my lane without warning, shoot the gap, and tailgate me to try to push me to 90 mph. The bullies don’t expect me to get even and swear out the window at them. But I do. One of my finest moments was when I outgunned a dude in a red monster—with my Honda hybrid. He was so pissed off. I high-fived myself. Seriously: don’t mess with this over-50 female.

The next time somebody talks to you like you’re a slow idiot, stare at him or her like s/he’s an idiot and say, “Listen punk: I survived the ‘70s, I wore six-inch platform shoes before you were born, loud music doesn’t bother me—unless it sucks—and you are too slow for me.”