I don’t fit.
According to the “scientists” at Buzzfeed, I don’t fit anywhere. Specifically, Buzzfeed experts told me I’m “the Jan Brady of generations.”
See that Buzzfeed? That’s my Jan Brady side eye telling you to watch your step from now on.
But I get it. I really don’t fit in. I’m neither Generation X nor Y. I am somewhere in between.
I can’t really blame Buzzfeed. I mean, here’s just a smattering of the data they had to work with…
Things That Make Me Somewhat Generation X
- I played with Popples and Pogs as a kid
- I listened to En Vogue and Smashing Pumpkins
- I wore a lot of side ponies, stirrup legging pants, and curled my bangs (picture it, I’m HOT)
- I was spanked and hit with a wooden spoon (and no one could’ve cared less)
- I typed my school papers on a word processor (that I believe was possessed by the Devil – but that’s for another blog post…)
- I downloaded songs on Napster
- I had a MySpace page
- I watched movies like Reality Bites and Singles and The Truth About Cats and Dogs over and over again…on VHS
- I had an email that ended in @magicfishfood.com (WTF? really?? Yes, really.)
Things That Make Me Somewhat Generation Y
- I want all the things and I want them now
- I like Taylor Swift songs and Katy Perry songs
- I had a Tamagatchi pet
- All my school supplies were decorated in Lisa Frank artwork
- I want all the things and I want them now
- I grew up with computers in my school
- I had a plethora of beanie babies
- I now share my entire life on social media and I like taking selfies
- I got my best fashion advice from Sabrina, the Teenage Witch (let’s talk butterfly clips, shall we?)
- I owned about 100 Dr Pepper Lip Smacker chapsticks over the course of my early teen years
- I want all the things and I want them now – (Seriously, where are all my things? Shouldn’t I have them by now? Ugh…waiting sucks.)
So, what am I?
Fuck, I am the Jan Brady of Generations.
I was born smack in the middle of the 80’s, as an oops baby no less, which means I was raised by my Gen X siblings while my Baby Boomer parents worked all day and only had enough energy to instill two rules. 1) Say please and thank you around all grown ups. 2) Drink coca cola. (But I’m partially Gen Y, so I rebelled and prefer Pepsi when given the choice.)
Now that I’m an adult, I look around at who my friends are, and apart from the handful of High School chums I still see around major holidays, my two best friends are exactly the same ages as my older sister and brother. How weird is that? That I picked the exact number of years in age gap as what I grew up with? This sets my besties firmly in Gen X. That means I can count on them to throw a super rad 80’s party, to never being afraid of playing with eyeshadow, and to tell me when it’s appropriate to cuff or not cuff one’s pants. (Of course, I’m part Gen Y so they’ve gotten use to me documenting all of this.)
I can’t claim total belonging to just one group, but I can claim just enough of the good stuff to make me believe that I’ll always have someone talk to. And that I won’t have to eat my lunch from the inside of a bathroom stall. And I think that’s winning.
How about you? What generation do you fit in?
Let the experts at Buzzfeed be your guide.
When talking about a girl’s body image, you have to go back. Waaaaaay back. All the way to the early years. Because a child will remember if people noticed her and whether they said nice things or a plethora of backhanded compliments. You know the ones.
“Oh she’s as skinny as a beanpole!”
WHAT THE HELL IS A BEANPOLE???
“She eats just like a bird!”
THAT’S CAUSE YOUR EGG SALAD HAS SHELLS IN IT, LADY!
Thankfully what I remember hearing is comments about my hair. I had long strawberry blonde hair and strangers would often comment to me or my mother how beautiful it was. They also commented occasionally on my freckles, which when you’re 6 are adorable. I can’t say the same at 28 because now I only have them on my arms and they’re called moles.
Back to my hair. On nights before big school days, my mom would often braid my hair in two pigtails. Then one or both of my older brothers would grab hold of the braids, making motorcycle noises as they “drove” me screaming around the house.
The next morning, my mother would help me get dressed in some sort of skort or jumper, as that is all my closet consisted of. Then she would take out the braids and begin brushing my hair.
Then she would brush even more…
and brush just a little bit more…
until my hair was the equivalent of one of those static electricity balls you see at science fairs.
And that is why I held the title of Miss Midwest Afro Queen, circa 1991.
Tell me your thoughts! What comments did you hear growing up?
What fashion choices make you happy instagram wasn’t around then?
Should my mother be allowed to touch anyone else’s hair?
Since I’m writing about my childhood, I thought I’d share a few throwback thursday pics.
I call this one my Anne of Green Gables look. I mean, look at that straw hat!
I knew every word. Every. Word.
Love and Green Gables,