I love Millennials. And, as a 56-year-old woman, I count quite a few of them as my friends.
I love their passion. I love their depth. I love it when they are not afraid to swim against the current, going somewhat out of synch with the rest of the school of fish.
I love how their military members have mirrored the Greatest Generation of World War II, showing such raw heroism in Iraq and Afghanistan.
I love the fact that Millennials are irrepressibly optimistic, even while waiting long periods of time to work their way into good jobs or places in prestigious schools.
I love Millennials.
Yet, make no mistake. I am not trying to become a Millennial. I am not trying to hold back the hands of time nor hoping to fool anyone into thinking I am still in my 30’s instead of old enough to be the mother of my Millennial friends.
For I also love that I was born in the 1950’s. I love that I came of age in the crazy 1970’s with my crazy 1970’s friends and classmates.
I love that I was the right age to meet and love and marry Noel.
I love that I was the right age to be the mother God chose for Joseph Oliver.
I love that I went to high school when I did, to college when I did, and into the Navy when I did.
In some ways I came of age in a simpler world.
But this world today is great, too. My Millennial friends and I surely enjoy learning, and sharing, new technologies with each other.
Guess what I am saying is that Baby Boomers and Millennials need each other. Both generations (and all generations) have flashes of brilliance.
But history is there for a reason. No generation stands on its own.