A Geriatric Millenial In The Thick Of It

"You're as significant and talented as anyone else in this world, but you aren't better than anyone else in this world".

It is a simple saying.  One that for me, has resonated for my entire life.  

This was the first core value my father tried to instill in me.  A sense of confidence in my own abilities, but to respect and acknowledge the talents of others.

It has served me well in finding my center in the world; balancing my ambition within the confines of humility.  

Still, I can't help but want to do something special in this moment and time we all find ourselves in.

I want to be a part of a change that completely transforms the political divisiveness that has nearly crushed our country

How do I that?

These are the thoughts the circle in my mind as I cruise down towards the grocery store in my 2010 Sentra.  I've become a part-time Instacart shopper during the pandemic, helping shop for groceries in a community that has been my home for 38 years.  

The routine is easy enough through the store; grabbing potatoes, bananas, frozen desserts, and bags of chips, all while listening to wirelessly streamed podcasts and playlists in my ears.  I start with a comedy newscast and then transition to an algorithmically produced playlist.

The money per Instacart trip isn't bad in the current economic climate.  Or at least it generally does enough to pay the bills.

I'm making great time through the beginning of the session, making substitutions where necessary and finding the items in what feels like a more and more efficient fashion.  I'm relaxed and everything is going according to plan when the customer notifies me that she would like to change her substitutions and for me to look for a separate item.

I'm starting to lose time, and in the same breath money.

The green digital clock within the Instacart app counts down, and what once felt like a relaxing shop where I would be paid pretty well has become a bit of a panic inducing goose chase.  As the clock goes from green to red, I become increasingly frustrated and rely on the breathing techniques advised by my therapist in times of mental stress.


As I begin to unload my cart, I'm hit with yet another wave of anxiety that produces sweat under my winter jacket. The wave stems from the combination of cramped quarters within the check-out lane and the time in which I will need to unload the orders all while being ready to pay in a timely fashion.  

It reminded me of being in the hospitality industry and experiencing what we would call a "rush" and the resulting stress of certain time and capability constraints when customers would arrive nearly simultaneously.  

Thankfully the person working the register couldn't have been kinder and did everything they could to help me, even separating the order on the back end by putting a paper bag as a divider as to where he put them and took the time to explain what he did for me.   

I drive back to campus, delivering to a student who didn't know her mother ordered her Instacart as well as cupcakes to a local hospital. 

Then....it's on to the next gig.  

The next gig in this case is a return trip home to eat lunch, help prepare dinner, and write so that maybe in the future I won't have to do grocery shopping that also induces anxiety attacks.  

I know that I need to write more often.  But the truth is that I'm scared shitless that my voice and talent won't be well received with  numerous grammatical errors and narrative flaws.

So often, I've been putting off writing seriously and have just been scrolling through Twitter with half-baked threads.

But I know that if I'm serious about changing the world that I exist in, I have to act on behalf of that change, and to do that means a commitment to writing during the day.

Lunch is delicious leftover pasta, some kettle cooked chips and iced animal crackers, and big glass of water.  I know it's not the best lunch, but it's not the worst all things considered.  I'm thinking about what to write about it, how to add to the rough draft I had started about being essentially a geriatric millennial who is living through the heart of whatever we will call this period in American History.

I look down at the clock.  1:54.  I haven't prepped the chicken yet but it won't take long.  I have time, but I'll have to leave by 2:30 to get to my next job, this time with Penn State, helping check people into a Covid-19 study.   Today might actually be my last day in this particular role as I'll be training a student replacement to take over what is generally thought of to be sure as a simple task.

From 3-6 my only questions are ethical ones regarding how much of a backstory from this probable Gen Z person should I try to gather?  Should I bring up my own history at Penn State?  Would it be worth it or would it simply be far easier to just talk about about the stir-fry I'm now looking forward to for dinner?

I shut down the lap-top and head in.  

The shift and training go well enough with the trainee, a 21 year old senior from Connecticut named Madison.  

Madison reminds me of nearly every college senior I've had the pleasure of meeting.  Optimistic, but in some ways, confused and uncertain about the future.  Deciding on a career path, but scared that the act of choosing one door will close so many others.  We cover the check-in process with ease and then go on to talk about who we were and why we were both in the Noll lab at 4:30.  I try to stress that the success that you have in any job, even one as simple as this, is that you try and stay positive through the check in process and to remain attentive and personable to people and what that means.

Before I know it the shift is over and it's time to go home.  Back to the family life.

I spend pretty much every evening with my wife, who I've been with for the past 11 years and married for the past 5 and a half.  For us both of us, we enjoy stories of all kinds.  To be sure, our preferences are divergent, with her preferring Disney-styled movies and comedies that are almost sure to put her into a good mood.  I on the other hand like a wider array of movies and seem to be drawn these days towards either action movies, documentaries and movies that seem to take certain risks within their storytelling.

So we settle in with making some stir-fry at home and watching some of our favorite shows on the couch, and by eight or nine o'clock both my wife and I are ready for bed.

And I haven't saved the world yet.

This is an average day for this 38 year old with a degree in journalism, an employment history of hospitality, and current situation of working hourly jobs until I can find what I would term a more permanent place within the local media community.

The next day occurs and it's another variation of the same basic formula.  An odd job here and there, some Instacarting and boom, bills are paid, food is on the table, and I'm able to put a little bit away here and there.

But it feels like I'm capable of so much more.

Like while I am fine to do the things that I'm currently doing because I know that I'm good at it and useful in that regard, it isn't what I should be doing. 

What I should be doing is writing, and trying to change the world with my voice.

In 2001 I was 17 and was in the midst of making the next choice of my life.  Should I go into the military with the country suddenly engaged with Afghanistan?  Should I go to college at Penn State and pursue both football and jounalism?

I chose college and while I achieved a dream in becoming part of a Division 1 football program; I would also feel defeat when I decided to give up the game when I struggled with grades as well as fitting in.

I have been touched by mental health issues and have experienced depression and anxiety throughout both my adolescence all the way through adulthood.

I graduated with a degree in journalism in a space that was constantly changing, and at almost every turn, it felt like for the worst.

So I spurned that path early on and went on to work in hospitality as door/security staff.

I fell in love with a lot of that crew and it felt like after a while, they did me.  I fell in love with my job and atmosphere and everything is coming up roses.  I become a manager; I meet and marry my wife.

Then 2016 happens and it feels like a rug was pulled out.

The ugliness of America marched through everyone's home as a man proudly proclaiming he "grabbed women by the pussy" became President.  

America becomes as divided as I've ever felt it.

Then some changes come through the job, and I fall out of love with that.  The environment changed significantly over the next two years and in the end decided to change my work environment significantly.

I left hospitality for an opportunity to return to Penn State as a research assistant where my skills allowed me to help lead with the on-boarding of various study subjects.

I helped prepare a controlled diet for people involved in a spice study sponsored by McCormick.  In another I led Covid-19 positive participants through a nasal rinse.  Currently I check people in for a different Covid-19 study.

This work is more rewarding to my soul and sense of balance, but I must say it isn't truly what I want to be doing with the majority of my time. Most of my coworkers keep asking what else I'm going to do.  How am I going to get there?

My journey is still ongoing.

I'm going to keep writing.  

I'm going to keep sharing my imperfect experiences hoping that those stories might bring a sense of shared community.

I don't believe my voice is better or more important than anyone else's.  That doesn't mean that I don't believe I have a valuable story to tell.