Generation Exhausted

"Dumbest" may be harsh, but maybe a little harshness is in order

Not long ago, a friend and I were discussing how some of the the things we used to enjoy - the tools we used to unwind and relax - didn't seem to be working as well anymore. In particular, reading; both voracious readers, we no longer seemed able to lose ourselves in a book anymore.

Not that we don't read - in the last several months we've both read several books for sheer enjoyment, a few others for intellectual stimulation, and a daily ingestion of news and views from all places and all kinds. In addition to news, we both read a little bit of some book daily, too. But that sense of immersion, we agreed, seems almost impossible to grasp. We pick up a book. We read a few pages. And we put it down. Or we pick up a book and soldier on, but the pages don't provide the insulation against the outside world that they once did. We hear kids playing, traffic outside, the birds in the yard - and the background of our own thoughts, seperate and distinct from the story we're enjoying.

Perhaps it was one of those unspoken signs of approaching middle age, we mused. After all, we've spent our 20s and 30s learning how to multi-task, keep several trains of thought moving and balls in the air all at once. Is it any wonder that our minds, so well trained to do so, can't as easily be coaxed into a mental "retreat"?

And then yesterday, I read the cover story in this month's The Atlantic. "Is Google Making Us Stoopid?" the headline screams. To which I mentally responded, "I can believe that." and picked up the magazine two weeks ago. The fact that it's taken me two weeks, in spite of 5 hours of plane travel, four days of vacation and two weekends to actually read the damn thing proves the point the article makes. Go read it. If it doesn't describe you, or bits of you, I will be surprised.

And then this morning, I read a news story (online of course) about Mark Bauerlein's new book, The Dumbest Generation: How the Digital Age Stupefies Young Americans and Jeopardizes Our Future, Or, Don't Trust Anyone Under 30. An mildly offensive title, to be sure, but one that rings true, and echoes another conversation I had recently about what I believe will - if it already hasn't - make my children's generation very different from the ones that came before. And with all the self-awareness I can muster, I must admit - I'll likely buy the book, quite soon, and then take unforgiveably long to read it.

Irony upon irony, 'til it's piled higher than my head - the decision to blog my thoughts came only after I looked for, and failed to find, a link that would allow me to Facebook the article.

These concerns are real, and it is once again, perhaps, Generation X caught squarely in the middle. We're not the "old fogies" - not quite - who don't understand all this "Internet Stuff." We're young enough to not be frightened and baffled by the concept and mechanics of uploading our photos to Facebook, but old enough to know that it's probably a good idea to read the Terms of Service before doing so. To use Bauerlein's analogy, we're young enough to appreciate the fun to be had in this virtual school cafeteria, but old enough to realize that the library can be just as stimulating.

So, what of the ones coming up behind us (Generation X), those teens and twenty-somethings who, when we're really old, are supposed to be our doctors and electricians and engineers? These are the kids who will, for good or for ill, be taking care of us some day. They're bright, no question. But it would be nice to know that they are just as capable of changing a tire as they are of changing a sound card.

And that's the problem I have with the Atlantic article and what I know of the book - there are few solutions offered.  But, idealist that I am, I'd like to think that there is something we could do. Short of wishing there could be a blackout every few months, I'm not sure what that could be.

I must be doing something right

Six years ago, upon the arrival of my 31st birthday, my dad gifted me with his idea of the perfect present. An executive-style office chair. High back, high arms, tilty thing, height adjustable, and, while not leather, certainly "leather-look." At the time, I was more annoyed than appreciative - my office is less than six feet wide, the desk is almost two feet deep, and the chair measures slightly more than a foot from the front of the seat to the back. In other words, the chair occupies a lot of real estate in an already crowded acreage.

However, he meant well - perhaps it was his way of acknowledging that while I might not be a high-powered CEO out there in the world, I was certainly beginning to succeed at being my own boss. And bosses need a boss's chair, right?

As time went on, I got used to the chair. It's big enough that I can tuck my feet up underneath me, or lean against one arm while draping my legs over the other, and get comfy here at the keyboard. And while it doesn't wheel around much (where would I go?) it's got a nice rock to it.

I noticed a while ago that the "leather-look" is starting to wear away - you can clearly see the chair padding where the backs of my knees rest. And it occurred to me, holy dog, I've actually spent enough time in this chair to wear it out. All by myself! That's a lot of sitting.

But, as my writer friends often remind me, butt in chair is the only way to get the job done. So instead of being mortified at the amount of time I must have spent on my butt these last six years, I think I'll be proud of being where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing - or at least trying to.

And then I'll ask for a new chair for my birthday. And if it takes up a lot of real estate, so be it. After all, this one turned out to work pretty well.