Coming of (old) age

I always thought the moment I’d  feel as though I had truly become an adult would be an enlightened affair.  I assumed I’d slip into an alternate dimension where I no longer belonged to the realm of the teenage and I was a proper grown up, with new urges like wanting to buy clothes from Next, open an ISA instead of spending my spare cash on crème eggs, listen to Take That and watch property shows. Okay, so I’m super into property shows but It wasn’t part of my growing up experience. This happened this week, and rather than voluntariliy closing the door on the old world of the child and calmly entering the realm of the grown up, instead I have been ousted. Ousted by the most honest and irrefutable source possible: teenagers.

This week I worked at a residential with year 10s. I remember year 10. Not quite like it was yesterday, but I remember it pretty well. From what I remember, I drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney and felt pretty much like I’d reached the height of sophistication. I’m not sure exactly how I viewed people who were in their 20s, and I probably didn’t exactly feel like I related to them, but I certainly felt like I was joining the adult realm. So I expected to be able to get on with these kids, have a laugh, chat about things that people ‘our’ age liked. How wrong could I have been.

The first sign that it wasn’t going to pan out that way was when I did some basic math. Some of these kids were SEVEN years younger than me. Seven years is a lot of time. A hell of a lot of time. These kids were born BASICALLY AT THE MILLENNIUM. When I was bopping about in my white gilet and waving around glow sticks they were still BABES IN ARMS. These kids don’t remember the ‘90s. That’s going to probably make us pretty different. Make us, dare I say it, of different generations.

Through the course of the residential this became staggeringly clear. At the quiz, my group argued for around 15 minutes about what Bella from Twilight’s special power is. Something to do with a shield, apparently, but the specifics of it are apparently up for debate. Meanwhile, one girl genuinely asked if any of the others ‘liked Harry Potter’. As IF. As IF that is a question that should even have to be asked. Apparently it is no longer normal to expect everyone likes, and knows, Harry Potter, whilst everyone knows the disgustingly pathetic story line of Stephanie Meyer’s creation.

The next thing that baffled me is their OBSESSION with One Direction. Whilst I too at that age had inexplicable,borderline worrying obssessions with musicians, I maintain that they were somewhat more credible. I KNOW that Fall Out Boy and Panic at the Disco are pretty lame, but at least they played instruments.  And Kerrang and NME were all over them. Pop music was a PRIMARY school thing. But no, at the age of 15 apparently its okay to wear those wristbands that say Harry<3Niall<3Zayn<3Louis<3Liam. COME ON GUYS. LISTEN TO SOME MUSIC THAT IS A BIT DEPRESSING AND CAN FUEL YOUR CRAZY, CRAZY HORMONAL EMOTIONAL STATES. At least Pete Wentz came up with ‘Let’s play this game called when you catch fire, I wouldn’t piss to put you out’. That’s the kind of shit teenagers need. Not meaningless tripe such as ‘live while we’re young’ that definitely has exceptionally questionable morals (don’t let the pictures leave your phone? really? REALLY?)

But THE single most upsetting thing that I uncovered was that they didn’t know what a marble run was. A MARBLE run. What are these kids doing in infant school? Playing Wii Tennis? Setting up a Twitter account? I think that my outrage simply adds to my aging. I might as well say ‘ back in my day’. Urgh. I disgust myself.

Anyway, for all of my judgement and discovery, these facts themselves were not the cause of my exile from the teenage world. The teenagers were. Remember that thing you used to do with your friends to a poor, unsuspecting teacher/parent/old person where you say a phrase which has a secret meaning? The only example I can think of right now is rather less than secret, but you know how it’d go. ‘Do you like fish sticks, miss? Do you actually? Miss likes fish sticks! Miss, how much do you like fish sticks?’ I remember distinctly saying this with a straight face to poor, unsuspecting adults whilst my friends collapsed around in fits of hysterics. Well, that happened to me. That was the moment. That was the moment my teenage soul floated away to another realm and my adult one entered my body with a depressing, and slightly embarrassed, thud. I was being made fun of. Because I didn’t understand. Because I no longer was part of the teenage crowd.

This was supplemented by something arguably worse. Throughout the residential, my caring, lovely students were helpful enough to define the words that the ‘kidz ‘ were ‘down with’. They helpfully explained what a ‘selfie’ was. What ‘swaggy’ meant. If I hadn’t known what these words meant, I would have conceded that I am old, out of touch, and graciously left the next generation to it. What is 100 million times worse is that they THOUGHT I wouldn’t know what those words meant. They THOUGHT I was old, firmly separate from them and their interests and secret world. As much as I wanted to stamp my feet and shout ‘I KNOW! I KNOW WHAT A SELFIE IS! I DO THEM ALL THE TIME! I AM YOUNG LIKE YOU!!!!!!!’ I had to refrain, and leave them to being the ridiculous, boisterous and cruel creatures that teenagers are. I should probably give up, accept the fact that i’m accelerating towards my thirties and get on with ordering cashmere cardigans from Marks and Spencer…