That Durable, Rode Hard and Put Up Wet, Been Through It Already Millennial Energy

Ford the river! You mean, call my Attorney?

And don’t come at me with “It’s put away wet!” energy. Not today, Darlene.

Recently, I lounged with a group of friends around a table. Yoga pants, chunky sweaters, not a stitch of makeup between us. Several bottles of wine at the center, tissues and tourniquets strewn about.

Breakups. Marriages ending. Loss of parents. Earth-shattering goodbyes to those we prayed so hard for. Dreams collapsing and buttons set to Restart without our permission.

We were crying. Then laughing. And then hysterically falling on the floor, tear-stained faces turning blush with snorting chortles. Just a bunch of girls—now, I guess... women? No longer bashful. An exit past young adults, but not quite middle-aged.

All it took was a quippy remark. An inside joke. A “Well, at least we’re not…”

Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.

When did this Grown-Up thing get so real? The issues are… hard. Difficult to navigate. Unknown territory—there’s no Oregon Trail scenario that prepared us for this.

Ford the river! You mean, call my attorney?

We used to dance on tables until 4 o’clock in the morning, running home to shower and change before heading to work by 7:00 a.m. to meet the train. Now we’re soliciting legal counsel—and not because we had too much fun that one summer. Probate. Hospitals. Awkward dinner parties. Assuring others at the grocery store, who moan with listening eyes, “I don’t know how you do it…” and we answer the only way we can: “Honey… I don’t have a choice.” Even more awkward run-ins at the coffee shop, followed by frantic phone calls in the parking lot to the parties affected.

But honestly? We prepared for this. Time is marching across our faces, but we’ve been putting on night cream since L’Oréal told us to in 2003.

Sharp right: In high school, I played Shelby in a production of Steel Magnolias. I wanted Ouiser or Clairee, but my well-meaning sibling whispered to the theater director that I was obsessed with the title character, and well... we all know how that goes. (I didn’t make it to Act IV and rarely got a laugh.)

And that’s kind of a metaphor for life, really. You don’t always have control. Planes can fly into buildings your freshman year of high school. You can graduate during a financial crisis. Diagnoses happen. You find out your crush is actually The Weirdo. And that guy you ghosted all those years ago? He ended up a self-made multimillionaire by the ripe age of 38.

Shucks. Played that hand poorly.

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My personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to judge those around me

We’re the generation of the Sharp Lefts. The what-was-promised-won’t-be-delivered. Never feel safe, never get too cozy… things will shift the moment you learn the movements of Hogwarts’ Grand Staircase.

Jack be nimble, Jack be quick.

And then there’s the fun ‘look at them now’ folk! The ones who never stretched those muscles, with the agility of a concrete block. You know them. The guy who not only believed in the dream that was sold but feels it’s still his. White-knuckling the promise of “You the man!” now sitting at the bar by himself, waxing and waning on the good old days and how soon, things owed will be given to him.

“It’s MY time now,” he states, drowning a Crown and Coke, winking at you. You know his CV hasn’t been updated since 2017. He’s never wept over not being able to pay rent, fishing in couch cushions for spare change as he built his company. Never has his car been repossessed—and why would it? Daddy owns it.

Yet there he perches on a barstool as if it were a throne, complaining to anyone who will listen—that it was the World that was against him. Forget how many times he’s been fired for various misdeeds (such as that embarrassingly failed attempt at embezzling). This is HIS world now.

You cringe and fight the urge to go off on him. You’ve stretched yourself so far, like cold butter on hot toast. You’re tired, and you’re not as sweet as you used to be.

But you did it yourself, by God, and you’ve made it to today.

The Adult Thing, I’ve come to realize, is that it’s not up to you to explain anything to him. To reason with the Illogical.

Raise your glass, cheers the Crazy, pay your bill with your own damn money, and go off on your path.

An unknown one, but at least it’s yours.

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I slapped Ouiser Boudreaux!

Best. Scene.

We’ve had good ole days. And we’re having them now, even though shrouded in pink clouds of “what in the actual f*ck?” And we’ll have them again, more joyous and love filled then we ever could have imagined.

I personally, cannot wait.

And you know what? I love being a Grand Millennial. I like making cookies and sending them through the post. I enjoy talking to strangers. I thrive on out-weirding the weirdo.

And we’ve figured out how to *67 again, so everyone be on guard. The Station of Choice of Chinquapin Parish is back, and we’re just too colorful for words.

We’re going to end on something sweet, because it’s already been in a year. Cookies for everyone! In fact, the best f*ing cookie I’ve ever put in my mouth.

Love your friends. Answer their calls and support your people. Ask for help when you need it… you’re certainly going to, if you’ve got any guts.

Drink your juice, Shelby, eat the cookies.

And accept acts of kindness- unless of course the Giver is way out of line. Then don’t write the thank you note. You were brought up right, but you don’t have to to show gratitude to those who deserve a whooping.

You know I love you more than my luggage,

-ASF xxx

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THE BEST DAMN COOKIE YOU’VE EVER HAD

aka Brown Butter Dark Chocolate Pistachio Cookies with dust garnish, because it’s my new favorite phrase

MAKES: 40 (35g each) COOKIES: | PREPARATION: 20 MINUTES | COOK TIME: 14 Minutes

This is the foundation for any brown butter cookie—mix in whatever inspires you. Blackberry lemon when it heats up outside? Yes. Dark roasted macadamia peanut? Absolutely.

I’ve been passing these throughout USPS for the past three weeks, so if you’re peckish and near me and I don’t despise you… hit me up.