Kids these days

I’ve only been out of high school for a decade. Now, assuming I spent the regular length of time in high school (I believe it’s called a sentence), I’m not a very old man. My grey hairs are still well-hidden, and I chuckle with delight when I find one. I have been thus far spared the thin lines that are destined to assail the lips and face of seasoned tobacco smokers like myself. The crystal in my hand isn’t due to flash red for another two years.

Yet somehow, despite my legitimate claim to the tail end of youth, I find myself thinking old curmudgeon thoughts. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when I became the sort of hat-wearing, crumpled old man who thinks about these things in this way.

Two observations from today’s outings will serve to illustrate my point:

Observation number one: As I sat down on the bus, on my way to lunch with a work colleague, I was about to pull out my still-newish Moleskine and jot some potential blog notes, or a poem, or a furniture design idea. Instead, despite the Japanese pop music I keep blaring in my left ear, I became a hapless eavesdropper to the conversation of the two girls seated behind me. Although I’m unable to quote verbatim, I shall attempt to convey the flavour of their conversation.

Blonde Girl: “I think he thinks I just do pills with Steve all the time.”

Other Girl: “You don’t do pills that often. Like, once in a while.”

Blonde Girl: “Yeah, like I think that it’s ’cause I was over at Steve’s, and he did two pills, and Trevor did two pills, and I had one pill, but then Steve’s mother came in and I was like trying to hide it but I did not comprehend what was going on. I got so hot. Then I gave the other pill to Steve, and he had it, and he was like totally ripped.”

Other Girl: “Yeah, I think he’s more bothered by how much time you spend hanging out with Steve.”

Holy Ghost of Charlton Heston, this girl does more pills than my grandmother! I think I know a pharmaceutical technician who comes into contact with less medication than she does. Unnamed gentleman, you are right. This girl does just do pills all the time. Nice legs aren’t everything; drop her like Tijuana contraband.

Now, in my day, and maybe this is just me being old, you couldn’t find four people her age who were all doing pills. We didn’t even say “doing pills.” Maybe you could find two who were crushing and smoking Ritalin or something. Three if you knew a lot of people. But four? No way. Pot yes, pills no.

Observation number two: Later, dressed more appropriately for the weather, my wife (equivalent-to) and I went to a local city playground to let our three children run wild. When we arrived, there were no less than fifteen adolescent girls playing on the play structure. For clarity’s sake, I don’t mean prepubescent; I mean these girls were practically out of school and capable of choosing their own wardrobes. And what they chose was only marginally modest.

So I’m sitting on a park bench, smoking my pipe, trying to watch my children play, and instead I find my field of vision filled with what I can only hope were eighteen-year-old girls engaged in feats of acrobatics. And instead of being a young father Twittering on his smartphone in the park, I am suddenly, unwittingly, Aqualung.

They left as a group, when their leader said it was time to leave. I can only assume she was their leader because she was taller and carrying a clipboard.

The immediate thought that entered my head was, what are teenage girls doing on a children’s playstructure at three o’clock in the afternoon? If it was a school exercise, then that was a very young teacher. They weren’t wearing uniforms, thankfully, so it wasn’t a team of some kind. Searching my memory, I failed to find a single instance of this occurring when I was their age, although admittedly I am not female and did not often hang around city parks.

Only after they left did I venture to pull out my Moleskine and write a note; about how uncomfortable the bench was, and how I should design a new one.

Before someone says it, let me tackle the obvious answer: this isn’t a symptom of “becoming one’s parents.” Historically, I tend to agree with my parents. I think, however, that I might be slightly more severe than they on the subject of today’s youth.

Maybe I’ll just chalk it up to my inherent conservatism and stubborn world-view, and ignore that nagging itch in my left hand. Seems like the mature thing to do.