Jackie McGregor: Talking ‘bout my generation but no one knows what I’m talking about
It was one of life’s big moments; I was about to order my son his first alcoholic drink on his 18th birthday.
Being the first of his friends to turn 18, he relished the thought of having bragging rights that he could now legally drink. And so, to make the moment especially memorable, I ordered him a beer that had apparently been discontinued in 2006.
“They don’t do Rolling Rock anymore?” I quizzed the waitress, aghast.
“A Miller then please?” I requested confidently. She shook her head, apparently that was a goner too. (Google informed me Miller was withdrawn from the UK in 2009! Where had I been all these years?)
Hubby saved the day with a request for a brew that hadn’t been resigned to the beer museum. “Cringe Mum!” said son, instantly whipping out his phone and informing his tribe that I’d mortifyingly ordering beers that were discontinued over a decade ago. I felt ancient!
I was already feeling time’s creep, as my Generation Z son rarely gets my Gen X references. I mentioned in passing, cartoon character Hong Kong Phooey last week and couldn’t believe he’d never heard of him. I even sang the theme tune and did some karate chops to jog his memory. “Doesn’t sound very PC,” he sighed
“Political correctness didn’t exist when I was growing up. PC stood for police constable then,” I declared. Further embarrassment ensued when his friend visited and they were discussing what to do that day. I helpfully interjected that they could go to the “pictures.”
A look of fleeting confusion passed his friend’s face as my son translated for him. “Mum means the cinema!”
“Your dad and I used to go to the Curzon when we were dating,” I said misty-eyed. They both looked at me in silence as a tumbleweed blew past. They’d never heard of the Curzon (it closed in 1999).
“I need to update my references,” I sighed to my husband. “Well at least you didn’t call it the ‘moving pictures,” he reassured me. I felt old and untrendy again whilst school shoe shopping with my son. An attractive, young girl rushed to serve him. “Please don’t say anything embarrassing,” he begged.
“I wasn’t about to ask if she could show you a pair of platforms or a jousting boot!” I huffed and slunk off into the background.
My descent into senility at the hands of the younger generation continued at a hair salon. The junior stylist, chatted to her colleague about presenter, Maya Jama.
“That red flame dress was amazing on her,” she commented, then asked if I’d seen it on Maya’s Insta?” I was about to say yes when she concluded: “No, you wouldn’t have Insta!” I was stunned! Did she think I was too old and untrendy for Instagram?
Perhaps she thought I sat at home chiselling words on stone tablets like Moses. She probably thought I knew Moses personally. I waited on her cracking out the Werther’s Originals on my behalf.
She and her young colleague then began comparing their new tops, pulling them down over slim tummies, whilst pushing up their chests. As I sat rapidly aging, watching them admire their bosoms in the mirror, my only consoling thought was, enjoy that perkiness girls - even the Roman Empire fell.