Smells Like Teen Spirit....and Maybe Some Other Stuff

When I was a teenager I took it upon myself to defend all other teenagers on principle alone. My mother regularly made, what I considered baseless accusations. She'd see a car speeding down the street and say, "Those teenagers need to slooooow down." To which I'd snappishly reply, "You don't know how old they are." Ok, I never said I was clever, just defensive. It seemed to her, at least in my mind, the root of all shenanigans began with teenagers.

It's funny how over time, things change. 

The way I feel about teenagers now is pretty much the way I feel about cats. I might really like you if you weren't so shifty, unpredictable and up to something I probably don't approve of. And of course pretty and taut, cellulite free, and fast approaching expert status in eye rolling -- I'm back to people in case you were still on my cat analogy. 

On a recent trip to the mall, I was buying a gift card at one of those overscented, overpriced stores Gen Y'ers love and here's the verbatim conversation I had with the teenage female employee (who had an amazing French manicure) upon checkout.

Her: How much do you want on the gift card?

Me: $40

Her: Please swipe your credit card. And what's your email address?

Me: Why do you need that?

Her: To complete the transaction.

Me: I still don't understand why you need my email. 

Her, all attitude-y: Then don't give it if you don't want.

That's where the verbal, out loud conversation ended. But in my mind I said" Soooo.... you don't need it to complete the transaction after all.

She hastily shoved my receipt at me and welcomed the next customer who might be pleased as punch to blindly hand over any personal information she requested.

But really why should Checkout Chickie care? She was just doing what she was told, right? And maybe that's fine for now. But still, I wanted to say -- stand up for yourself, sister. Tell your boss that you aren't going to mislead customers anymore. Tell us you want our email address so your corporate headquarters can send a daily useless message that will join its brethren in the inbox onslaught that occurs before our eyes even focus at 6am.

The irony, of course, is I used to be you -- we all did. Well, you with an abacus instead of a fancy cash register. You with giant foam shoulder pads, a middle part and 'wings'." 

But the more I think about it I realize here's a high schooler with at least some drive and ambition. After all, it's Friday night and she's at work; not hanging out at the McDonalds on the corner of New Hampshire Avenue and Randolph Road with 25 friends and a rent-a-cop trying to track down a field party with a trashcan full of grain punch.

Props and unspoken apologies to all the teenagers I have misjudged and will misjudge for lesser crimes than this. I used to fight your plight, but now I'm older, wiser and more crotchety. So this one-way conversation happened in my head. Plus I need all my stamina just to corral the three that fall under my care. And if I'm going to embarrass myself and anyone in public, shouldn't it really be my own daughters?