We pulled our Subaru into a space reserved for fuel-efficient vehicles at our LEED certified downtown market. We were listening to a world music CD for children that I had just checked out from the public library.
This was the moment. The one that scrubbed any remnants of blue off our collars. No more pretending. It was time to take my subtly trendy $5 Goodwill jeans into that market, and proudly order the Michigan-made Bloody Mary mix with my brunch.
I can’t say I’ve accepted myself as a member of a demographic. But I do acknowledge it. I wonder a lot about what my grandparents would think of my life. They’d be proud, surely. They were tickled pink by my older cousins’ successes in love and life. But could we ever tell Grandma how much our cell phone bills are? Man, she even thought answering machines were an unnecessary cost.
It is unreal to be descended from people who grew up without indoor plumbing. Grandmothers who used washboards and darned socks. Grandfathers who forged iron and fixed all the things. My parents generation launched our family into college. My generation–what? Stayed up all night in Prague? What am I supposed to tell those other backpackers in that European hostel? That somehow I’m more “real” because of the Victory Gardens in my blood?
Anyone know where I can get a pair of Danskos on sale?