When my son's college friend moved into the empty bedroom upstairs, the demographics in our house officially tipped: Millennials 2, Moms 1.
This isn't inherently bad.
Cam pays rent.
He raises the bar on household chores; I can't expect Cam to keep his bathroom clean unless I do the same with mine.
He also contributes to an infusion of youth culture I like having around.
In fact, I'm not one of those baby boomers who wholesale denigrates millennials, who thinks all young adults living in the year 2019 are lazy, good-for-nothing bums because they don't want to work their lives away like we did.
Rather, I like hearing their take on the world and how they think it could be better.
I like having one-on-one conversations with these fascinating creatures who I find to be super aware, super smart, super sharp-witted people with a finger on the pulse of such exotic things as Icelandic travel, which is tops on the millennial bucket list to spend their college-loan money on.
Where this can quickly shift is when two or more are gathered.
They might as well be speaking Spanish.
Really fast Spanish I can't keep up with.
"Dude. Did you hear that journalism podcast by Ezra Klein talking to Michael Pollan about about how psilocybin mushrooms can ease fears of death?"
"No, but did you hear the new album by Rainbow Kitten Surprise? I really liked the lyrics against the instrumentation."
"Bruh, yeah, but wait, did I tell you that if I go to Prague for my study abroad I can WOOF in Sweden first?"
I feel worn out just listening.
I also feel left out, which makes me try too hard to fit in.
"Back in the day, when we listened to albums, we could actually touch them!" I say.
"I know journalists. Hell, I am one!" I try again.
"I did hallucinogens once (or twice). I thought I was going to die."
Whatever.
"How about some Chex Mix?"
When in doubt, I offer my homemade snacks to the group, which they always appreciate. Not so much my world view or my request that they call me "DL," which they only sometimes do, holding more consistently to "Mrs. H" or "Benjie's mom."
Which makes me no different than my parents and them no different than me when I was their age.
Except we boomers like to think we're forever hip.
Which is why, unlike my parents, in the early days of Cam moving in, I could be found skulking around the kitchen where a multitude of millennials often gathers to play The Resistance while simultaneously cruising Spotify, watching YouTube and debating the difference between Abita Purple Haze and Butte Creek Organic India Pale Ale.
"I used to drink! A lot!" I offer to a polite titter that dies away as quickly as I disappear.
Recently, then, after a semester of millennial gatherings, I had an epiphany. Something to do with megahertz: Even if I could, I'm not so sure I want to keep up with their collective frequency.
Maybe all that meditation is starting to work. Or maybe the fatigue of trying to hang when I could be napping is catching up with me. Either way, I've come to realize that while being in community with my millennial son and his friends is a good, connected thing to do, always trying to be in community with them and their constant information synthesizing analysis cynicism idealism traveling where to next is exhausting.
It's also a hindrance to their process. I may have a closet full of skinny jeans and a Venmo account. But in fact I am not one of them.
The old adage that hip is not hip if you have to ask if you're hip might fit here. Maybe hip, like everything else in this age of confusion, needs to be redefined.
Maybe hip is living into the truth of oneself and one's place in the world, which is, after all, all the rage these days, no matter the age, and in fact was perfected by people like Ram Dass who, at 87, is no millennial, nor even a baby boomer.
Maybe hip is being wise enough to know the moments when my identity and presence seem to fit, and otherwise, get out of the way.
Let the millennials have it.
All that keeping up with technology, all those musicians and podcasts and debates?
Meh.
I'm much better off in those mass millennial moments, slipping away to my bedroom, where I turn on the box fan to drown out the chatter, and "Friends," to call me back to a simpler time way back in 1994.
