I was covered in a layer of sweat, and my iPhone charger was dangling out of a bag that contained the after-hours work I still needed to do along with a Lara bar, crushed under the weight of my laptop. It should have been obvious: I’d been stressed, and moving way too fast. But, as usual, I didn’t realize it until I was on the train. I poked my head out of my inbox long enough to play peek-a-boo with a toddler clutching her snack, and chat with an older couple en route to vacation. I felt joy, and a familiar pang of shame that comes from realizing you’ve moved too fast to cherish what’s in front of you.
Riding the train is always a reminder of the things I don’t do enough: sit and talk with strangers. Spend time in a space designated for one thing instead of a multitasking hub designed to be everything all at once. Slow down. While the train is often the fastest way to my destination, it’s also the most leisurely. And these days, leisure can feel like an afterthought.
Amtrak announced in late September that it would halt its dining service on long-distance trains, trading traditional dining cars — the more luxurious version of the cafe car I sat in as I traveled home that harried evening — for “flexible” and “contemporary” dining options. While the change will only affect certain East Coast one-night routes, it ignited a conversation about all that is lost in an attempt to have more: more privacy instead of sitting next to fellow travelers, more time to do things more productive than waiting for a meal, more quickness and ease. The desire to “lure a younger generation of riders,” cited as part of the reason for the change, is an example of what feels like a message from society to millennials in particular: We’re going to offer less and expect you to get more out of it.
The suggestion that, as a 26-year-old, I should find meaning in something that’s sparse, impersonal and temporary feels all too familiar. Millennials work more jobs for less money, and have fewer assets and wealth than previous generations did at the same age. (It’s not lost on me that Amtrak’s decision to cut the dining car, pitched as a way to appeal to younger riders, will eliminate the jobs of a variety of union workers.) On top of that is an added tsk-tsking that we should always be operating more efficiently. There’s furniture millennials can rent to temporarily furnish the apartments and homes we don’t own, because, in case you haven’t heard, an entire generation has been accused of spending our down payments on avocado toast and coffee. There’s date night subscription boxes intended to take the guesswork out of planning and romance, and meal prep services aimed at helping us spend less time in the grocery store.
“Who doesn’t want that?” I wonder as I fire off emails for one job on one device, while skimming a document for a second job on another. “Who doesn’t want more ease?” I think, as I look around my apartment bedroom, with its efficient closet organization system and a nightstand purchased from Facebook Marketplace — perfectly practical. Nothing is excessive and everything is purposeful, but it’s a sterile place to exist, where function trumps comfort.
The truth is, I don’t always want this kind of life.
Just like Amtrak citing prepackaged meals as a chic and contemporary workaround to a prepared meal, the emphasis on ease — on maximizing every second — is supposed to be sexy. But it can feel exhausting.
The idea that young people like me are always on the go, always in transition and always on masks that we might actually desire slowness, want to relish an experience, or enjoy taking a moment to feel comfortable and human instead of curated and optimized.
Our experiences at work, in our homes and even in transit can be chopped up into pieces of purpose and service. Anything else — any lingering, any humanity — can feel superfluous, or even wasteful, especially for a generation scapegoated as entitled for wanting things that used to be considered basic. It’s as though doing more (even when we’re doing something as simple and sedentary as riding a train) with less is always the ultimate goal.
It’s not difficult to see why, when an advertisement highlighting convenience and quickness pops up, we believe maybe this really is the thing that will make life better. Maybe this is what “contemporary” looks like. But I wish small things — meals on a train, unplanned moments that can’t be logged as self-improvement or furniture that is owned — didn’t feel old-fashioned. I wish people knew that my generation wants more than to optimize our lives, or to feel trendy because of how fast we’re hustling. I wish slowing down didn’t feel like a luxury.
Rainesford Stauffer is the author of the forthcoming book “An Ordinary Age.”
The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips. And here’s our email: [email protected].
Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.
Source: Read Full Article
Home » Analysis & Comment » Opinion | The Sterile, Efficient Life of a Millennial
Opinion | The Sterile, Efficient Life of a Millennial
I was covered in a layer of sweat, and my iPhone charger was dangling out of a bag that contained the after-hours work I still needed to do along with a Lara bar, crushed under the weight of my laptop. It should have been obvious: I’d been stressed, and moving way too fast. But, as usual, I didn’t realize it until I was on the train. I poked my head out of my inbox long enough to play peek-a-boo with a toddler clutching her snack, and chat with an older couple en route to vacation. I felt joy, and a familiar pang of shame that comes from realizing you’ve moved too fast to cherish what’s in front of you.
Riding the train is always a reminder of the things I don’t do enough: sit and talk with strangers. Spend time in a space designated for one thing instead of a multitasking hub designed to be everything all at once. Slow down. While the train is often the fastest way to my destination, it’s also the most leisurely. And these days, leisure can feel like an afterthought.
Amtrak announced in late September that it would halt its dining service on long-distance trains, trading traditional dining cars — the more luxurious version of the cafe car I sat in as I traveled home that harried evening — for “flexible” and “contemporary” dining options. While the change will only affect certain East Coast one-night routes, it ignited a conversation about all that is lost in an attempt to have more: more privacy instead of sitting next to fellow travelers, more time to do things more productive than waiting for a meal, more quickness and ease. The desire to “lure a younger generation of riders,” cited as part of the reason for the change, is an example of what feels like a message from society to millennials in particular: We’re going to offer less and expect you to get more out of it.
The suggestion that, as a 26-year-old, I should find meaning in something that’s sparse, impersonal and temporary feels all too familiar. Millennials work more jobs for less money, and have fewer assets and wealth than previous generations did at the same age. (It’s not lost on me that Amtrak’s decision to cut the dining car, pitched as a way to appeal to younger riders, will eliminate the jobs of a variety of union workers.) On top of that is an added tsk-tsking that we should always be operating more efficiently. There’s furniture millennials can rent to temporarily furnish the apartments and homes we don’t own, because, in case you haven’t heard, an entire generation has been accused of spending our down payments on avocado toast and coffee. There’s date night subscription boxes intended to take the guesswork out of planning and romance, and meal prep services aimed at helping us spend less time in the grocery store.
“Who doesn’t want that?” I wonder as I fire off emails for one job on one device, while skimming a document for a second job on another. “Who doesn’t want more ease?” I think, as I look around my apartment bedroom, with its efficient closet organization system and a nightstand purchased from Facebook Marketplace — perfectly practical. Nothing is excessive and everything is purposeful, but it’s a sterile place to exist, where function trumps comfort.
The truth is, I don’t always want this kind of life.
Just like Amtrak citing prepackaged meals as a chic and contemporary workaround to a prepared meal, the emphasis on ease — on maximizing every second — is supposed to be sexy. But it can feel exhausting.
The idea that young people like me are always on the go, always in transition and always on masks that we might actually desire slowness, want to relish an experience, or enjoy taking a moment to feel comfortable and human instead of curated and optimized.
Our experiences at work, in our homes and even in transit can be chopped up into pieces of purpose and service. Anything else — any lingering, any humanity — can feel superfluous, or even wasteful, especially for a generation scapegoated as entitled for wanting things that used to be considered basic. It’s as though doing more (even when we’re doing something as simple and sedentary as riding a train) with less is always the ultimate goal.
It’s not difficult to see why, when an advertisement highlighting convenience and quickness pops up, we believe maybe this really is the thing that will make life better. Maybe this is what “contemporary” looks like. But I wish small things — meals on a train, unplanned moments that can’t be logged as self-improvement or furniture that is owned — didn’t feel old-fashioned. I wish people knew that my generation wants more than to optimize our lives, or to feel trendy because of how fast we’re hustling. I wish slowing down didn’t feel like a luxury.
Rainesford Stauffer is the author of the forthcoming book “An Ordinary Age.”
The Times is committed to publishing a diversity of letters to the editor. We’d like to hear what you think about this or any of our articles. Here are some tips. And here’s our email: [email protected].
Follow The New York Times Opinion section on Facebook, Twitter (@NYTopinion) and Instagram.
Source: Read Full Article