Clique: a small group of people, with shared interests or other features in common, who spend time together and do not readily allow others to join them.
Ms. Gen-X smiled and said, "My generation doesn't do cliques." I nearly melted into my shoes.
My booming generation's women seemed to have modeled after The Group (1966), a film of famously dys-functional female stereotypes, including my idol, Candice Bergen, in the lead role as a lesbian, no less.
Thank goodness I knew she was acting, but, just as likely, I didn't catch on. Hoosier-naive, I was. Still am.
A reason Xers have trouble defining their own generational persona could be that they’ve rarely been doted on by the media, despite media creations by those among them like Facebook and WordPress. Aren't you proud that I connected those dots...
By contrast, Baby Boomers have been a source of media fascination from the get-go. (and now, my friends and I, those Boomer chickas, complain that our 'get-up-and-go' got up and went...)
And Millennials, the “everybody-gets-a-trophy” generation, have been the subject of endless stories about their racial diversity, their political and social liberalism, their voracious technology use, and their grim economic circumstances. Sounds like grounds for intergenerational war.
For Xers, there’s one silver lining in all this. From everything we know about them (via "Google is great"), they’re savvy, skeptical and self-reliant; they’re not into preening or pampering, and they just might not give much of a hoot what others think of them. Or whether others think of them at all.
After all, they have their cell phones, selfies, and selves. The enviable result: they don't need cliques!
It's no wonder that I cleave to younger-minded women, who do not their own selves betray, unwarped by disingenuous competition and verbal miss-de-mean-her, to live a true Christian way.
Makes me wish for a re-do button.... Please, Lord. Quick.
I shifted my mindset abit with a recent GenX interaction: the young woman was new in her ‘position’ and decided that she should admonish me about the care of the ‘fine furniture’ in the group home…
As usual, it was the tone that piqued…the one intended to place me… Down.
“Honey,” my inner self said, “I’ve been caring for fine furniture for fifty years, since my mom entrusted me with that Saturday chore to earn an allowance. Now, as an SLP, that skill doesn’t determine my pay.”
Instead, as usual, because one can not argue with a prig, er pig, without wallowing in the mud, I walked away. Her intent didn’t own me.