What is it about being around people who are younger (or seemingly younger) than you that makes you want to tear your hair out in annoyance? Well, of course I know the obvious answer to this—at least for me. And that’s the fact that, yes, they’re younger, therefore they still have time to get their lives right, to not fuck it all up. That’s probably why they act the way they do: all fucking happy, positively giddy, really. It’s not their fault, per se, for being like this. After all, who wouldn’t be, at that stage? Feeling all that energy and power course through them, yet not fully understanding what it is or how to use it. I know I used to be the same in those years, too. Though, if I’m being totally honest, I was never quite so spastic. I know, I know: you can’t use that word in that way anymore, but it’s really the only one that applies.

I’m sure if I said the word directly to a youth, they would look at me like some kind of monster—not that they don’t already. Because that’s how they look at pretty much everyone over the age of twenty-seven. Like they’ve got three heads or something. And it doesn’t matter how young you might look (or speak)—they can always sus out the fact that you’re not really one of them. That your “prime time” has already come and gone. That you’re as irrelevant as Betamax. A reference that few of the current youths would automatically get without the luxury of “looking it up.”

I don’t know when, exactly, I crossed over from the side of being young and not noticing how irritating my erstwhile kind was to being “old” and suddenly unable to stand them. Their obnoxious laughter, their innocuous conversations about the latest innocuous trend and/or pop star (excuse me, influencer). It all drove me batty—especially if I was somehow trapped in a confined space with them. And I know that many youths would like to believe that the reason those on the “wrong side” of their age bracket have such contempt for them is because of jealousy. An uncontrollable envy-turned-cruelty that makes “olds” and youths natural enemies. With youths honestly being the cuntier between the two of us. Constantly lording their youth over “olds” like some kind of superpower. I know I certainly never did that when I would have been deemed young enough to do so. My parents didn’t raise me in such a manner. It was ingrained in me to respect those who were older, not deride them and go out of my way to make them feel like shit whenever possible. That kind of behavior wouldn’t have been tolerated in my household. I would spare the fragile youths of today the details on just how it wouldn’t be tolerated, by what means my parents would use to keep me in line and make me understand it would not be tolerated.

Sometimes I do lament that corporal punishment has gone the way of the dodo when it comes to disciplining children. How else are they supposed to take a command seriously, eh? Understand that it is a command and not, like, a strongly worded piece of advice? Maybe if they got smacked around more often nowadays they wouldn’t all be such petulant assholes. Ah Christ, there I go, sounding like a typical “bitter hag.” That’s what my ex started calling me toward the end of our relationship, too. When I began to call him out on his obvious affection for a much younger co-worker who had just started working in his office as one of the receptionists. Because, sadly, no matter how much progress is made with the “next generation,” it seems women still can’t get much further ahead in an office setting than “administration” (a glorified synonym for “secretary,” another word you can’t use anymore). Anyway, it’s not like I have to worry about that form of occupational degradation. Not since I learned how to code anyway. Something I should have done years ago. Because now I can work wherever I want. For me, this means staying at home, away from the sound and fury of the outside world. Yes, if only I had learned this skill sooner (the fact that I could still learn it also makes me feel less “old”). It would have saved me many unpleasant situations with youths in the workplace. And the public space.

Still, even shut-ins have to go out every now and again and expose themselves to the hell that is other people. Particularly if it’s other people who are young. Their squalling, squawking, screaming attacking my ears in some form or another the second I step outside. They’re all around me, overrunning the city. Because it is, in the end, a young person’s city. As most cities are. Designed to accommodate only those who can endure the endless rigors and inconveniences of living here. If it weren’t for the salary I make, I probably couldn’t handle it any longer, would’ve long ago fled the scene for some one-horse town where the cost of living isn’t so high. But as it stands, I have no intention of leaving, which means I have to deal with the primary population: college students, people in their twenties and, perhaps worst of all, the hordes of kids in K-12 that can’t be avoided at certain hours of the day if you find yourself “caught out there.” And oh, how I’ve had the misfortune of being caught out there quite a few times during my tenure in this town. This town that once used to be a real place before youths started treating it merely like a “set” to film their TikTok videos on. Fucking gits, all of them.

But of course, I have to remind myself that they can’t be blamed. At least not entirely. For it was ultimately those who are older than them (not saying it was me though) that created the current situation. TikTok pervasiveness included. So I take a deep breath, gird my fucking loins (to quote an “old” movie like The Devil Wears Prada) and go out into the streets, preparing myself for the worst: interaction of any kind, however minor, with a youth. Some might call it ephebiphobia. I simply call it “not wanting to deal with any abuse, stress or trauma for which I’m not compensated.”