I work a couple of weekend shifts. This lies happily hand-in-hand with my slightly beleaguered social life, but also results in bizarre Saturdays where I have good intentions of being productive – but usually end up in a gabfest with the three other staff rostered on weekends.
Topics of debate or personal questions are typically raised without warning, for example, ‘Do you think the Democrats are becoming far less relevant in this day and age?’ Or, ‘Do you agree that while No Logo raises points worthy of debate, there is little that can be done to alleviate the skullduggery of corporate branding?’ Or, ‘Come on, everyone’s had crabs at some stage in their life!’
Last weekend, a query was brought out of the blue by the young lady who sits next to me:
‘Are you Generation X or Y?’
‘Well,’ I replied. ‘Generation X, but I think I’m around the cutoff point for Generation Y.’
‘How old are you?’ she demanded.
’22,’ I spoke hopefully. I didn’t want to be Generation Y. Generation Y are fuckwits with the attention span of a Pokemon character, and they listen to house and trance.
‘You’re Generation Y, matey,’ she nominated. I wailed in dismay.
‘I am so Generation X,’ I screamed. ‘I fucking like Nirvana for Christ’s sake.’
‘That you may,’ she replied, biting her pen in thought, ‘But Generation X is around 25 years or older. You’re part of the dance kiddie Generation Y crew.’
‘But I don’t want to be part of Y!’ I cried. ‘Isn’t there any way I can defect?’
A woman from another part of the office made herself known. ‘The true test is if you know who coined the term Generation X. If you know that, you’re definitely an X-er.’
I racked my brain, but this knowledge was not forthcoming. ‘I don’t know, but I was out of the country for three weeks in 1996 – all that Gen-X stuff might have happened them,’ I added hopefully.
‘Nuh-uh, you’re Y,’ she shook her head sadly.
‘Well, at least I’m not goth,’ I smirked at the other male in the office, who made no secret of his Morrissey fetish.
‘EXCUSE ME?’ he screeched, whilst continuing to maintain his annex of woe. Quite clever, really.
‘For Christ’s sake, there’s no point to gothery. At least with something like punk, you can rage against the system,’ I pointed out. ‘All you can do is uphold the virtues of depression.’
Goth Boy began to word his retort, then decided to feel sorry for himself and sank back down into his seat.
‘And what about you?’ I asked the woman who’d begun the conversation. ‘You’re around 25 years old, so are you X?’
‘I’ve never really thought about it, to be honest,’ she considered.
I nodded my head. ‘The cornerstone of a Generation X-er is the unbridled apathy.’
‘Hmmmm….. I dunno, dunno mate,’ she replied.
‘You’ve answered my question,’ I smiled.