Am I Old? On Gen Z, Millennials, and Fall Out Boy.

He stood at the front of the class. A mere decade older than I was, my professor let us in on a secret of getting older. I rolled my eyes to my brows. Surely this guy who was pretty much a contemporary wasn’t really telling us about getting old, but he was right. There would definitely come a day when I didn’t know what the hell was playing on the radio or why it was popular, when I would become so accustomed to whatever I had been listening to that I didn’t realize I had been playing the same songs since middle school and that my taste would rarely, if ever, change.

Now, I work as a model. Ah, it keeps me young! Not a stressful or annoying occupation whatsoever, I live for the days I get to work with younger models because I enjoy suffering. Never mind that even though sometimes only four years separate us, we are entirely different people and might as well be from entirely different generations. And, in a way, we are. I got my first cell phone when I was 15 and only after I beat my dad in ping pong (he let me win so I wasn’t considered a colossal loser for not having a Motorola Razr that could only receive two text messages a day). iPhones were not a thing in Alaska. Instagram’s conception happened while I was nearing the end of high school. And we had one computer in my house that lived in a “computer room” and was shared between seven people. My oldest brother had a beeper, dude. Do you think a young model even knows what a beeper is? Or a landline? Or, I don’t know, how to not tell the internet about every, single thing she does? I mean, I’m not knocking it. These are different times, for sure, but if you come after me in my geriatric state — that I apparently reached at a ripe 22 — I’m coming for you, sis.

This particular event happened in the back of a car on the way to a shoot. I, a 23-year-old with barely a crow’s toe on my face, was chastised by the spring chicken next to me. She was 18. Ed Sheeran was playing on the aux cord and I was bobbing my head along while she was belting out every word. “Do you even know this song?” I didn’t. “Yeah! It’s that new song.” Shape of You, I’d find out. “It’s not new at all.” “Okay, so I don’t know it.” “You probably listen to like, Fall Out Boy.” I did. I laughed and shrugged her off and then secretly hoped she got hit by a car later in the day. “Old people always like Fall Out Boy.” Old. People. I was an old people. I’m OLD PEOPLE.

And I’m a really an old person? Absolutely not. But to that girl, I was ancient. I only imagined she considered her very much alive parents as dead and gone, considering they must have been older than I was. But in a way, she was right. I had become accustomed to my ways, stuck in my habits and tastes. Ed Sheeran’s “Shape of You” isn’t a far cry from the basic rock and indie that I listen to, but I had barely browsed the Top 100 since high school at that point — AND I STILL DON’T.

You like what you like, okay? I happen to like Bob Dylan and Bruce Springsteen. Antiques like Yes and Jethro Tull with some chestnuts of My Chemical Romance and The Killers sprinkled in. My top played list in 2018 could have very well been my top played list in 2008 and I’m okay with that. Shoot, I’m happy about it. AND YEAH, I FUCKING LOVE FALL OUT BOY.

This isn’t to say that new music is bad and that I detest the top hits, but more to say I’m stuck in my ways. My brother always says he doesn’t like Subway, but he likes one sandwich at Subway. That’s how I feel about most things as I get older. Why mess with perfection?

Another instance happened only a month ago. My roommate, who is three years my junior, asked my all-time favorite song. An impossible question with several answers, he pried for a single song. “Dancing in the Dark” by Bruce Springsteen when I’m sad and “Dreamgirl” by Dave Matthews Band when I’m not sad. “DAVE MATTHEWS BAND?! Isn’t he like, super old?” It was as if I had personally offended him. My answer had been retorted with the same disgust someone my age might react to a person liking Nickelback (one joke ruined Nickelback’s reputation and I still think they’re a damn good band). Yes, fucker. Dave Matthews Band. Tons of golden records, more Grammy awards than juul pods you’ve blown through.

I recently went through the top 100 on Spotify out of pure curiosity. What are these young bucks listening to? I found a song I liked. “Summer Day” by Martin Garrix. It’s obscenely catchy with a sing along refrain and some Macklemore verses (who was POPPIN while I was in college, probably someone my professor didn’t care to hear), but I couldn’t understand why I liked it so much — something beyond how catchy it was. I liked a voice in it. It was familiar. I couldn’t place it at first, but then it hit me. It was Patrick Stump. Patrick Stump out here in the top 100 and its 2019. Do you know who Patrick Stump is? None other than the lead singer of Fall Out Boy. TAKE THAT, YOUNG PEOPLE.