Yo, Millennial

The generation gap now extends to kitchen decor. Is nothing sacred? A Gen-Xer blows off some steam at the coffee shop.

Spied on the T-shirt of a barista at a downtown coffeehouse: “SinceWhen Did Granite Countertops Become the Boss of Us?”

Customer: Yo, millennial barista. I’m the dude watching you like a hipster ghost, three feet from where you are, awaiting the double double-long shot you have so expertly drawn for me 20 times this month—though, if you recognize me at all, I wouldn’t know it. And I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t. I am a Gen X man whose features have begun to soften. I am quiet, well spoken. I wear a small and interesting hat.

Yo, millennial barista, I observe you with some reverence at this moment wherein you and your generation glow brightest. You’ve been featured in several major international publications—online and in print—every day this week. Just like when my generation was at our zenith, when our nova flared, and Douglas Coupland seemed so unstoppable.

Then came the Xennials ( or whatever they were called) to fill the generation vacuum briefly; awkwardly.

And then came you. To inherit the earth. Or at least, its liabilities. For which I am sorry. (Which is more than the Boomers ever said to me.) And please don’t ask who Douglas Coupland is. But yo, millennial: about those countertops … I have no reason to expect you to care what I think because you never actually chat with me when you serve me, but rather with your co-workers (whose stations are 10 feet behind you), while I absorb your upbeat and superaudible takes on the virtues of in-store vs. online shopping, how not to get ghosted on Tinder, the historical lows of savings rates and your provisional celebration of creative transformation that is trumped, always, by your concrete hunger for order, security and stability … you have loudly entered my coffee-time headspace, millennial, and as you tap the fair-trade grounds from that silver espresso filter, I feel an urge to share.

So: When did granite countertops become the boss of us? When did they gather the power to supplant the fireplace as the centre of our domestic universe?

Well: Granite countertops were rare until the mid-’90s, when they became the crack cocaine of real estate. Now, Forbes magazine says North Americans spend between $1.2 billion and $6 billion annually on granite countertops: buying them, shipping them from South America, sending them to China for polishing. Which is more than we spend on the lively arts. Climate change. Child benefits.

I presume your disapproval, my younger hipster friend. But I am, after all, a Gen-Xer, and I confess I can’t help but be stirred by the blackish green of the gypsum, just as you can’t help how adorable you are or your preference for craft beer, or the stats that suggest your socialist bent will decline at the rate that your taxes increase.

And don’t feel bad if that happens. You’re only human—like many of us born between 1964 and 1980 who, as we began to earn more money, devolved from our original ideas of “self ” and relaxed into the long, dark Boomer shadow.

For example: I always wanted to run a sheep farm, but to raise

the capital, my wife and I had to flip our way through our first three detached houses (which, sorry, I know you will probably never own). By the time we started looking for our fourth, I found I had come to fetishize that igneous rock formed of liquid fiery magma deep inside the earth billions of years ago: calcite, gypsum, fluorite, feldspar, topaz—which are, incidentally, resistant to food stains and scratches.

We never did buy the sheep farm; happily, we live in Roxboro now. Where granite is considered “to code.” But is granite my “boss”? Only in the way that the pursuit of experience, travel and leisure is yours.

Because you are a beautiful child of the economic meltdown and you realize that there is a really weird relationship between money and happiness. The Boomers taught us that. And, yes, you can blame them. Go ahead! But only if you resist becoming mercenary when and if you can ever find a way to make real cash. Only if you cleave to transcendence if and when you don’t. Because what the world needs now, millennial barista, is a little transcendence.

So I do hope you stick with your generation’s consumer patterns, or we are all lost.

Okay, full disclosure, millennial: I have a granite countertop. Actually had one in all my houses so far. My wife paid for the first one (classic orthoclase) by working unhealthy hours that caused fights between us that ultimately resulted in makeup sex on top of it—and in the conception of my son, your age. He’s a nice millennial and helps me recover my passwords. And the current countertop (chima blue) is actually very beautiful. Forged in the Earth’s core three billion years ago. You should come for dinner sometime. Marrying my son may be the only shot you have at owning a house.

But no pressure, young barista. You with your plans for a beautiful uncivilization. You who yearns to leave this city not because you dislike bars and clubs but because of catastrophic reverberations from economic crises you and your ilk were born into like baby calves onto a desert floor … you with your scary tats, your perfect eyelashes and that unsettling inscrutability that makes me think I’ve done something wrong.

You’re looking at me now. You’re actually looking at me. Maybe you need me. Maybe I can be your hipster elder. Maybe I can offer cool insights and guidance. Honesty and solidarity. Oh. You just want to know if I want room for milk. Yes, millennial. Lots of milk. Because as you and I both know, YOLO. Until tomorrow, then. Just remember, my friend: Gen Z is breathing down your neck.

I found I had come to fetishize that igneous rock formed deep inside the Earth.