Maybe every generation does this or maybe it’s just us pessimistic millennials, but one of my favorite things that I keep hearing is people in their 20s complaining about being so very old. It’s true, we’re older than we ever have been before, and we’re right at the age of being disillusioned with life, when we find out that childhood dreams and promises are actually all lies.
Some of this, I know, is because millennials were promised more than we will get. One of the main things that sets millennials apart from the previous and subsequent generations is that we came of age around the 2008 economic crisis. We watched as the childhood promise, the promise that previous generations had, of work hard and succeed, or at least survive, collapsed. We watched people get laid off from jobs they had had for most of their lives, we watched families lose their homes, and we watched as middle-aged white guys, the people who rule the world, ended up serving fries at McDonald’s because there were no jobs anywhere.
Add this disappointment with the fact that millennials are also dubbed the Nostalgia Generation, due to the rapid increase of technology during childhood and young adulthood which has given us a sense of time passing quicker than it really has. Perhaps, it shouldn’t surprise anyone, least of all me who is among this generation, that we’re all complaining about being old, when we’re just not honestly.
While actual generational lines are arbitrary, and those on the edges will always be a little fuzzy, identifying with both or the one they aren’t “technically” born in, a general rule to look at millennials are people born from (ish) 1982 - 1995, with some wiggle room to extend to 1979 and 1998. Basically, these are people who are now in their 20s and 30s.
There’s one more thing that should be mentioned which defines millennials, besides the economic crash and the rapid technology growth: September 11th, 2001. Millennials remember it, and the next generation, Gen Z, does not. Even those of us who are on the young end of the generation remember when it happened, and, to some extent, remember the pre- 9/11 world and the chaos that happened post-.
Recently, I was prompted, by Bossed Up by Emillie Aries, to write a journal entry as if it were 10 years in the future. In ten years, I’ll be 33 turning 34. This didn’t daunt me, because, of course, I would be ten years older in ten years. That’s how math works, right? But when I mentioned this to my best friend, Tim, he began freaking out about how old he would be in ten years.
He’s been complaining about how old he is for over a year at this point, and I’ve heard similar complaints from my partner. Perhaps, this is because they’re both a little older than me, 26 and 25 respectively, and I just haven’t reached this freak out / age depression stage yet. Perhaps in 2020 when I approach my 25th birthday, I’ll begin to feel that clock ticking on my life, the inevitability of my own mortality.
Perhaps.
Or perhaps not.
Unlike my brother, who plans to live forever with his consciousness being uploaded to the world wide web, I plan to live until I’m 120. While this seems hella old, considering how long people in my family tend to live, as long as I take relatively good care of myself, I should, at least, manage 100 before I kick it. This means, I’m roughly 19.9-24% done with my life. That completion bar in my download is only 20% filled in--I still have ages to go.
Of course, there could be a spike in my connection speed tomorrow, I’ll die suddenly, and that’ll be that. But come on, I have too many other things to worry about than to worry about if there’s a toilet falling out of the sky with my name on it.
This isn’t to say that I don’t lament my age sometimes, or rather, feel discouraged by where I am in life relating to my age. Because, like so many others, I do.
As a child, I had the most ridiculous ideas of when I would actually accomplish things, and I’ve been discouraged and depressed by not meeting these goals since. The biggest and loftiest goal was that I would have a book published, and it would be wildly successful, by the age of 15. Yes, that’s right. I would have my big break and live off the royalties by age 15. That was the plan! Oh, how little did I know then.
15 came and went, and there’s no book written yet, let alone published, let alone wildly successful. Instead of being so rich I would never need to go to college or get a big-girl job, I’m 80k in debt with a BA and looking into getting more in debt for an MBA. To top it off, I’m living with my parents. With my partner and our infant child. Yeah, needless to say, it hasn’t gone according to plan at all.
We all have different goals, of course, and had different visions for what our lives would look like as grown-ups or ten years in the future, but all millennials seem to agree this isn’t what we planned. At least, those of us that I speak to or follow on various forms of social media. Some of us are fulfilled and satisfied, but even those millennials seem to agree that this isn’t what they pictured when they envisioned adult-life.
Maybe this is true for every generation: how would I know? Does everyone have a personal crisis in their 20s or 30s? If so, why didn’t anyone tell me? Why was I expected to plan out my life as a child if everyone knew it would collapse into nervous laughter and apologetic shrugging?
I could be writing that book right now, of course, that one I’ve been working on since I was 8, that one that is supposed to make me a millionaire. Instead I’m writing this...thing. This personal, reflective essay where I whine about the unfairness of life while simultaneously presenting myself as somehow better than my peers for not crying about being old in my mid 20s--I think we call this a humble brag.
Yet, if I’m to be perfectly honest, I don’t think I’ll ever finish that book. I love it, I really do. It’s high fantasy and complicated and dreamy and kind of light-hearted and depressing all at once. It’s wonderful, and I really do wish I would finish it. But I don’t think I’m going to. There’s a tight, panicky feeling in my chest when I think about it. I’ve been stuck on this so long, I’ve passed every deadline I’ve ever tried to put on myself, I’ve worked on it too much and not enough. I’m overwhelmed by the project. Not just does my beloved story give me anxiety now, but it’s simply not fun. I find no pleasure in spending time in that universe with those characters anymore. They only serve to remind me of my supposed failings.
And yes, I know that I’m only 23 and that I have 80% of my life left ahead of me to write this, so it’s not really a failing yet, is it? And maybe, hopefully, I’ll pick this back up some years in the future and find it gives me the good kind of rush, a sweet familiarity and pleasure and the drive to finish what I started so long ago. But right now, that’s not how I feel.
I may not be upset that I’m not planning for retirement yet, like Tim is, but I’m certainly feeling the pressure of my age more than I probably let on. Everywhere I look, I see people succeeding. Social media is great for boasting about your successes and for following people who seem to have all their shit together. Even those who keep it “real” by sharing struggles, still always seem to have perfect hair, amazing lighting, and all their shit together.
Do I have my shit together on social media? I sure as hell hope so. I don’t want everyone to know my dirty little secret: I’m wandering around like a chicken with my head cut off, just like everybody else.