Dear Readers, I stood outside the record/used book shop the other day, handwriting a note with my phone number that I slid under the door. It was during their business hours (2 to 5 p.m. only) and I’d returned with 4 euros cash to collect the four books I’d picked out earlier in the week as a birthday gift to myself. They didn’t accept card or MBWay, but the two rocker anarchist owners offered to hold them until I came back. No rush.
But the doors were locked, so I did what we did in the ’80s and ’90s…I wrote a note. I tore out a page from my “tearable” notebook and jotted my number in ballpoint pen, in cursive. If that’s not “tell me you’re Gen X without telling me you’re Gen X,” I don’t know what is. Maybe the fact that I drafted this column the same way?
Hello there, y’all. I’m Kelly Stone, a perimenopausal Gen X woman who still does “older generation” things because, well, I’m from one. If you’re reading this in the actual newspaper, on the actual day it’s printed, you’re probably older than me, statistically speaking. Either way, I bet you can relate to the note-slid-underthe-door action.
It was also my birthday week, and that little activity reminded me how far my birthdate sits from many of the people I’m surrounded by. I’m balancing between student and former professor, comedian and academic, educator without a classroom, romantic without a lover.
When I ran for office, I was considered too young by the establishment and too old by the young progressives — literally one year too old for their endorsement, while the old guard’s floor was just above my reach. They call us the forgotten generation. Latch-key kids. The Goonies. We phoned into radio stations to dedicate songs to our fifth-grade sweethearts, and now we post videos without shame to promote our card-carrying membership in the “We Do Not Care Club.” Ashley Judd is one of our ambassadors.
The record shop owners did text me when they were open, and I got my books. They even made me explain why I’d picked each one, which was a little invasive, but it helped them see me better.
For my birthday this year, all I asked was help paying my tuition so I can enroll in my final year of PhD studies. I’ve written this column for two years with no pay, just love for the process and my readers. If you’ve enjoyed my work, or me, or simply want to support education, I’d be grateful for any contribution to my tuition fund at http://spot.fund/pmbtn5hsc.
Sometimes you just have to write the note and ask for what you need. I’m grateful for the lessons my generation has taught me, and I try my best to pay it forward. Thanks for being part of my story. While I no longer care if I’m wearing a black belt with brown shoes (We Do Not Care!), I care deeply about not letting folks down.
Happy birthday, Leos! From centenarians to newborn Simbas, we’re all in this together, and Goonies never say die!
XOXO, org or kellystonecomedy@gmail. com and adores handwritten notes and postcards via good ol’ snail mail: R das Combatentes da Grande Guerra 47, FRAC R, Aveiro, Portugal 3810-087.
