If you were born between 1977 and 1981, I count you as a member of my notional generation. You fit into a scheme of my own device, unsupported by any scientific theory or sociological research, that suggests that you belong to a little wormhole in space and time that defies the 'Generation X' tag, or whatever else it is that the pundits would have it called. I'm talking about my generation.
Aside from the not particularly unique hope that we die before we get old, what defines us? Let us agree to shun the noxious labels that have been earned by our brothers in pink shirts and waxed chests. Much has been made of the alleged fixation on clothes, accessories, and video games. Yet I would argue that text messaging and social networking are only the most superficial manifestations of this mini-generation's identity.
One hears a lament for the death of the man's man, the guy's guy, the beer-drinking, sweat-dripping Hercules that changes flat tyres with one hand and pinches bottoms with the other. Indeed, there is an entire series of videos on YouTube dedicated to essential skills sorely lacking in the Man of Today -- ranging from basic mechanical skills to everyday tasks like ironing shirts. And that, I think, strikes closer to the heart of the matter. Speaking for the men, I don't think it's testosterone that's in short supply. It's simply usefulness.
Consider.
We can't fashion mailboxes out of wood like our fathers used to. We can't attack the doorbell with a screwdriver and put the circuits right. We can't fix the car engine in pouring rain and we sure as hell can't do our accounts without some assistance from the Silver-Haired Ones.
We are soft.
That's right. Don't reel from the shock of reading in print the secret that you have nursed in your bosom these many years and that is now out in the open, gushing obscenely like a stormy gutter.
We are soft.
Oh, to be sure, the flagbearers still compete athletically and still lust after a nice set of wheels the same way they lust after a nice set of something else and boys will be boys and blah de blah de blah, but no, really.
Those annoying thirty-somethings that you despise for their so-yesterday tastes and their fondness for Nirula's food? They're tougher than you. Not as tough as the generation before them, to be sure, but a far sight tougher than you. And me.
Sure, I can handle my mobile phone's dictionary feature with the dexterity of a concert pianist, but can I tighten that leaky faucet with a wrench so that it drips no more? Well, maybe, but I think I'll just call the plumber.
The Internet has made everyone an expert on everything, so now we don't need to cram our brains full of a lot of useless information. Wikipedia is a click away, and if you want to know about the renovation of the Carpenter Gothic Bardsdale Methodist Episcopal Church in California in 1982 [from Wikipedia's newest articles], just Google it, n00b. (Or click on the links in the previous sentence.)
Everyone's a Jack-of-all-trades and so telling someone they don't know Jack probably doesn't carry the same level of venom it would have before the Information Revolution.
All this, mind you, is independent of how ripped you are and how many friends you have on MySpace or Facebook or Orkut.
So you have 23" biceps and 248,973 blonde buddies and buddettes on your friend list.
Big Fat Hairy Deal.
The WC in the guest room keeps flushing. Could ya fix it for me?
I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this generation grew up soft-boiled. We didn't want to, I promise. We'd like to slave over the radiator and then come back and wipe our grease-soiled hands with a grease-soiled rag and then wipe the sweat off our grease-soiled brows before settling down to a working man's lunch too. It's just that we'd like to be sure that there's soap and running water handy before we get to the actual radiator.
And a soft towel too, please?
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