OK, Boomer, a catchphrase and now an internet meme, landed on my radar, not with a thud but intrigue. A few days earlier, Isobel, my 17-year-old granddaughter said, “They should not say OK, Boomer to you. You are one of the good ones.” The #OKBoomer was spreading like wildfire encouraged by strong winds and high temperatures. I wanted to know more. But first, who are the Millennials, also referred to as Generation Y? They are our children or grandchildren born between 1980 and 2000.
Edith Andersen
Welcome to my blog of ruminations and essays.
Some of my women friends don’t want anything to do with the feminist label. One friend ended our relationship after she learned I took part in the 2017 Women’s March in Washington, D.C. They equate feminists to man-haters. But can they explain to me why it doesn’t ruffle their feathers when boys are told not to act like a girl? What’s so bad about girls? When you combine pink and blue, you have purple. Can’t we be purple people?
You’ve probably heard the expression, dog eats dog world. A phrase on a popular t-shirt in Michigan was Detroit, where the weak are killed and eaten. That’s not my perception of humans or a world I embrace. So how do we counter the dog eats dog world?
Do my degrees mean I’m educated for life? Does the fact I earned diplomas fifty years ago put me in the group reporters refer to as educated women? When I wrote bios of near a hundred women, those who went from high school to work or marriage often lamented about their decision or lack of opportunity to get an education.
This habit of treating sleep as a second-class idea remained with me for half-a-century, or until a few months ago. So secure in my sleep opinion—less is better— that I preached it to others, my husband in particular. Even after retiring and time not an issue, I dragged myself through the day spreading yawning contagion, insisting it wasn’t for lack of sleep. Oh, no! It was too much sleep.
Stories about women’s contributions in history should include those self-serving females who stopped at nothing to climb the power ladder. Poppaea, my fifth blog post on women in history, is one of them.
Yesterday morning, I ran into a friend— let’s call her Jo— who told me she’s been working on her golf game all summer. “I can’t wait for us to play,” she said. Her sincerity and eagerness was no mirror image to my internal response. What gives?
