“Okay Boomer” is the phrase that young people, often in
their thirties—use to disrespect elders like me—a woman born after the end of World War II in the
era of national fertility known as the Baby Boom.
The first time I heard
the phrase directed at me, I was teaching English to international college
students. I told a 20-year-old guy from
France to stop texting and pay attention. As he looked up from his phone, he said in a
beautiful French accent: “Okay Boo-mere.” I didn’t know whether to be insulted
or proud that he was picking up idioms so well.
The next time "Okay Boomer" hit home—it was self-directed. I was croaking it out to myself—at the
gym. It was 7 a.m. on a chilly morning
in Mountain View—in a gym that was once a two-story warehouse. Even while working up a sweat, I was layered
in a T-shirt and hoodie. I was working with a trainer on squats for balance and
strength. No weights, no ropes, no equipment—just me, my 62-year old knees and
my belly—what others call a “core.” Across the gym, a breathtaking young woman,
training for the Olympics in the sport of mountain biking, was warming up by leaping upwards over the loft stairs, taking them four at a time. The sweat glistened on her bare midriff as she returned to the ground. And on that very same ground, just feet away, I creaked into my fifth squat out of ten. My trainer Matt, a guy in his early thirties who has eyes in the back of his head and pays attention to the smallest details, called
out the reps-- "five more to go.” I wondered how he was going to keep count with me as the mountain biker goddess began a new series of leaps. He was acting like he didn't notice her feats of strength--but, hell, I was noticing them. I creaked into squat six. Could I
get to seven?
"Okay Boomer", I whispered to myself—at least I thought it was
a whisper. Matt heard it—and started to laugh—with me and not at me. Really—he laughed with me--while at this point we both watched the Olympian. And at that moment, I realized that "okay boomer"was a rallying cry It was a
cry of inspiration—not resignation--loud and proud—a call to action, showing myself and others what I was made of. (Of course, the others had to be paying attention) I finished my squats, got some water--hydrating as it is known amongst us athletes. And as I fished the keys to my Prius out of my lightweight crossbody purse, I celebrated my strength—(at least what
was left of it)--and headed to Costco, ready to haul oversized packages into the trunk!
