ArcaMax

I'm catching sight of, over the hill of another year, the third year of my 40s. I suppose that could be a surprise for those of you who haven't been reading this column long enough and were lured in by its title. That's right, us millennials? Solidly middle-aged.

At a civic engagement group a few weeks back, a speaker in their 20s lambasted the established crowd. He called out, "Raise your hand if you're a young person who disagrees with this proposal." My husband and I looked at each other, mid-raise of our arms, realizing that even if our greys weren't our full head like the majority of the room, they were there enough to debate us as the audience to his impassioned plea to show hands.

My husband turns 40 this month, something I've teased about in the past. "When you were born, I was already out and about, doing the things, getting a head start on living, baby," I'd say. He'd roll his eyes and laugh. I welcomed turning forty. The narrative I steeped in from the older women who were my friends is that it's not the new thirties, but it is the decade where you could settle into who you were. Fewer things are given out as easily, like your time or your energy.

There's a conversation happening online about how Gen Zers find millennials absolutely cringeworthy. While I think there might be nuggets of truth to that, I will say that as a generation, we seem to have a whole lot more joy in the snippets we can find than they do. There's a scene in Mad Men where Don Draper, the ad man at the height of his power, ends up with the upstart in the elevator. The younger looks at him, "I feel bad for you." Don, puzzled, walks out and says, "I don't think of you at all."

This might be the construction of the forties, where the apathy I encountered in my youth stretches over a scaffolding of identity, even if it is only built by the actions mandated by time.

For example, it allows me to take comfort in songs I didn't like when I was younger, because the lyrics were etched into my mind. It took me back to another time. The other morning, I spent a good hour cleaning and joyfully yodeling to Sugar Ray, a band for which I couldn't even name an album. "She always rights," an inhale and tone modulation, "the wrongs," an inhale for more warbling on vowels, "for me, baby."

It's this repetition that pulls you into the culture you've spent your life trying to place yourself in. Yodeling for me also appears during what has become my favorite part of the holiday season, where I joyfully carol different renditions of the same 20 songs for the better part of 6 weeks. To my neighbors' chagrin, this happens at the start of the season when I climb up a ladder in short sleeves, decked out in sunscreen and a hat, putting up Christmas lights to "Mele Kalikimaka" and giving Bing Crosby a run for his money.

But there are downsides to repetition, like the soreness that bites you in the glutes from only climbing a ladder up and down once a year.

Maybe that's midlife. We can realize that repetition isn't a trap; it's a rhythm. It's the sound of who we've become, sung back through old songs, familiar motions, and holidays that roll around faster every year. Maybe that's what being a millennial in middle age really is: showing up, singing along, and still finding joy in the remix. The tune changes a little each time, even if the chorus stays the same, and somehow, it lands a little truer every year.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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