Puddles at Crossroads, New York
There comes a time, it seems, that to be you just isn't enough. That's a tough thing to swallow. I learned this weekend about a group of people who belong to the Helicopter Generation. A group entering the workforce who had parents hover over them their whole youth, praising their every move, trying, so hard, to be the positive force in their children's lives. And now these kids are going to work and no one takes the time to tell them they're doing a great job. Poor kids. Apparently I am a bit too old for this generation. I'm not sure what diabolical influence my generational category, Generation X, plays in my neurosis. I do know that no matter how much I fucked up, it was made clear that I was smart enough to "do whatever I wanted." Apparently I was that smart. I could do whatever I wanted. And so I did. And it worked. Easy breezy. Until the little troll revisionists who live under the bridge between the right hemisphere and the left hemisphere come out to harass the happy goats. And so it is made clear that nothing was ever really all that great. Now, faced with the reality of a life without the protective cover of the tech bubble, or the housing bubble, or the inflated bad asset bubble, my bubbles, the Generation X bubbles, I find I can't just do whatever I want. If I want to be a successful professional, I can't just show up, say a few zany things and whip up some smoke and mirrors. If I want to be a worthy mate, I can't just leave the planning to the cosmos. If I want to be a good father, I can't waste time. All very disconcerting. All very embarrassing. I mean, for a while, I could do whatever I wanted. The doing I had down pat. It was the wanting that went missing somewhere along the way.