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.
