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I am an unashamed Millennial.
I survived dial-up. I burned mix CDs for crushes who didn't deserve them. I owned a pink Motorola RAZR flip phone that made me feel like the CEO of Hot Girl Communications. I was raised on MSN Messenger status updates, and the raw, feral chaos of a Facebook poke war. My online identity was forged in the fires of the early Instagram Valencia filters.
And now I am being told — pretty aggressively, I might add — by Gen Z that everything about the way I exist is… lame.
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First, it was my side part. Apparently, it makes me look like I've been wandering aimlessly in a Westfield since 2012. Then they came for my ankle socks, which, excuse me, I thought were neutral, invisible, and honestly a public service in the fight against blisters. And then, the death blow: skinny jeans. My last line of defence against denim that drags through nightclub bathrooms like a filthy mop.
"Lame," they said.