Regeneration X (20 page)

February 7, 2026

I just have to say, it is the strangest thing to dive into today’s pool of youth. Had it been any other previous span of time, I don’t think it would be so hard. Teenagers are so different now than from before technology took over normal social interaction.

I saw a post about growing up in the 70s and 80s, where social media was likened to bikes gathered at the end of a neighborhood cul-de-sac. The bikes signified the form of delivery whereby kids socialized. This difference in the way I grew up inspires a feeling of pity for the iGeneration. Social media is so anti-social.

I guess this means I will feel sorry for myself because, eventually, if everything goes according to plan, I’ll be identifying myself as one of them. Sounds rather Borgish, “Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.”

As I observe my new peers, I see them often distracted by their devices. It makes the gadgets I used as a remote employee seem so old school, just pieces of office equipment. For teens, the devices are extensions of themselves. They’re so fully integrated into technology they might as well have the devices implanted. From as small a thing as checking the time, they refer to their “go go gadget” wrist thingies, which does 101 more things than tell time. I’ve even seen several people walking around with Halos. One girl’s Halo was replicated to look like a filigree crown worn by an elf in LOTR.
 

Young people worry about how they look-wearing cool brands—keeping up with the trends—but someone really ought to tell them how dopey the look walking around with their mouths slightly ajar—kind of defeats the purpose of ‘looking cool.’ I see it all the time. Girls wearing really short denim skirts or shorts, t-shirts with foreign sayings like cest la vie or carpe diem, and boots—regardless that it could be 80 degrees outside—staring at their gadgets and breathing through their mouths like they're sleepwalking. While I specifically note the female attire, the same warning should be passed along to the young guys. Who should relay this to them, do you think?

Fortunately, I believe drama students are the less techie version of today’s teen. I knew the Drama College was LSPLA’s primary draw, but I toured a few of the other colleges out of curiosity and found the facilities rather barren of bodies even the study lounges were empty. This is because a variety of courses can be taken online and most students choose to do so.

Sometimes when talking to people I get the impression they have lost some brain cells somewhere, but I remind myself they are smart in other ways. Still, the social aspects have changed so dramatically, young people are no different from my sheltered self when I worked from home and didn’t audibly speak with people daily. Makes me wonder ‘what’ the next millennium of humans will be like. I wonder, but I’m not that curious, and am very glad I won’t be around for it.

It’s one thing to observe and accept others because whatever they are doing doesn’t apply to you, but I’m still getting used to the idea of the teen me. My mind gets muddled with what I am, what I’m supposed to be, and what I want to be. Right now it’s not exactly a farce, but it feels like one.

I came fairly close to confessing to Sima. She seemed a kindred spirit if this can be divined from a perception of maturity. I suspected for a moment she had regenerated, but hearing her story, her maturity stems from life struggles, not from the wisdom that comes with age.

Sima was a straight-A student. Her family assumed she would follow in her father’s profession, choosing some specialty in the field of medicine or health. However, the Dayal’s predictably studious and dutiful daughter surprised them in revealing she had not applied to any medical schools, but instead to the many drama schools in and outside of London.

Her choice of study was not acceptable to her family. Coming from an Indian family of doctors and businessmen and women, her parents and siblings assumed she would follow the natural course; drama being very far from this route. Although she had taken Drama for Stage, she was biding her time before transitioning to screen acting. I could not truly empathize with her cultural pressures, but from what I’ve gathered, stage performance was a gift of ability or talent best kept for a hobby, social occasion, or celebration. Television and the big screen are simply bawdier venues. Neither stage nor screen acting made for a respectable career, especially in a Westernized culture. It would be so much harder for her, still, since there were so few Indian actresses on television or in movies; a fact she is fully aware of.
 

I still cannot fathom how a person knows what they want at 18, anyway. But lest I sound cynical, I’ll add, having the strength of will to pursue a life completely apart from the norm is commendable. I admire her taking the risks she has; I was not so brave at her age. I wished to tell her what I really thought; give her advice based on my own experience of being discontent, and support her decisions as a true friend would. I almost did.

When Sima’s parents gave her a choice—to put it diplomatically—that she could either conform to expectations or leave home and pursue a course of action away from the traditional values of her heritage, I brought it up with my roommates. I asked if they would be opposed to another roommate.

Our apartment, although small compared to what you could get for the same price in Seattle, had an extra room we used for an office. Since Beck’s and Inez’s office was going to be the at shop once they found a location, and I no longer needed an office, they were both open to the idea of Sima moving in. However, as we discussed it further, we realized our own comfort and freedom would be invaded by her presence, despite her character. I would either need to bring Sima into my confidence or act the part of a teenager at all times at school and home—avoid talking about the past, and speak with friends, family and Michael in private or only when she wasn’t around. Michael would have to remain just a guy. And how would I go about explaining my best friends were 48 and 38? I would be pulling Inez and Becks further into my sham.

In the end, the black worm, the same one that nudged the gray cells of self-consciousness, would not allow my unveiling. It would be going backward when I tried so hard to fit in and not have to explain the twisted psychology of it all. I would hate for my peers to think I had an unfair advantage and start thinking of me as a gunner. I’d seen and heard the stories about bullying, social pressures, and identity crises, and I was not looking for a reason to be ostracized. Perhaps I was assuming more of an understanding on their part than they could mentally absorb, in actuality, or too little credit for plainly being young.

Regardless, my guilt plagued me for a while since there was something I could have done to help Sima, but didn’t. I breathed a sigh of relief when her situation sorted itself out without my help or confessions. She would live on campus for the remainder of the term with Annabelle, who suddenly found herself as a single in a double’s dormitory. It was somewhat of a remarkable concurrence, as well as being opportune. Sima wasn’t thrilled remaining in Croydon, family drama or not, because the commute was long and tedious. Then next term, she and Annabelle would find a flat together.

Although all was resolved, I continued to dwell on this situation since again; I wasn’t making living my new life easy on myself. Granted, for the better part of 17 years—with the exception of the first couple of years of newly wedded bliss, vacations, moves across country, and random events—there weren’t very many memories of my late forties and early fifties. But was it so very bad I was acting as if those years didn’t happen at all? The truly staggering fact is, I hardly remember my first time at ages 17 and 18. As I got older, would my history continue to disappear from my mind year by year?

I am sure this isn’t a consequence of CR; my mind is aging annually, but 37 years ahead of my body. I vow to start a memory journal of everything I could recall from birth to 54 and another for my regeneration years.

This is something I want to talk about with someone who understands, but Michael was M.I.A. I’m certain he would have noticed the number of missed calls from a foreign number by now. The truth is, I don’t remember if we said we’d call one another or whether this was truly a
I’m going to pretend you don’t exist in my life
separation. Is he just angry? He didn’t seem cross, he seemed disheartened, but so much could have developed from such an emotion. All he texted back when I’d sent him a message to let him know we arrived safely was, “Thanks for letting me know.”

・ ・ ・

The next time Parker asked me out, I said yes. I hardly talk about Michael. I guess if I really wanted to deter attention, I would have made mentions of him here and there. When it seemed I had no cause for the keep-away measures, I tried to block Michael out of my mind so I could focus on acclimating to my current reality. Regardless, Parker must have assumed I was available again, if there was such a premeditation on his part.

Maybe my reservations had to do with Michael, maybe not. Perhaps subconsciously I was holding out for something better, someone other than an eighteen year old that is. Like many things, I was clueless when it came to the romantic end of my bargain with fate. I know I had the naïve preconception that all Englishmen were similar to the characters portrayed by Colin Firth or Richard Armitage. Add the fact these men were all older was another failure to connect on my part. If there was going to be any romance at all, surely it would have been a 30 or 40-something year old who showed interest?

To Parker’s credit, he is charmingly different from his American counterparts, more debonair and classically gentlemen-like, but … he’s so mentally young, through no fault of his own. Still, … In some aspects of character, although I didn’t know him well enough, he reminded me of Michael. In other ways, he also brought visions of Miles to mind. They all looked different. Michael and Miles have darker coloring. Parker is a fair, very tall 6’3”, dwarfing my petite frame of five-four, light-green eyes and straight sandy blond hair longer in the front and tapered cleanly along the nape of his neck in the back. With a good deal of product, I was sure he could pull off a modern version of the Flock of Seagulls’ lead singer, Mike Score’s, look. Contrary to what this visualization might imply, Parker is gorgeous with enough cool to pass off any hipster styling. Come to think of it, he rather looks as a really young Rupert Penry-Jones would. He dresses casual, comparable to Michael, with jeans, t-shirt, wool blazer and usually a mismatched scarf. He often wears a cap like Michael’s, too, only Parker’s is steel gray. Honestly, if I were the swooning type, I would have. Mel affected this once or twice and Parker, not being persuaded by her flirtations, was what first appealed to me about him.

On our first date, Parker took me to a play, which would have been a uniquely welcome idea if it weren’t for the fact we are both studying actors. I said nothing, but inside it was one strike against him. I think I was just being difficult. I would have probably felt the same if he’d taken me to a movie.

I was ironically pleased, at least, that the play was in the current theme of our studies and not something broadway-esque. We saw a lesser-known play written by Shakespeare’s contemporary and rival Ben Jonson, called
Oberon, the Faery Prince
. I shuddered with apprehension at the idea that someday, it would be me up there in costume, reciting some similarly laborious speech.

We talked a little about the play and what we liked and didn’t. It was a wonderful production, which took a great deal of good direction. The actors were talented, and no doubt had trained long and hard. It was easy to spot the so-so actors, even though this was no amateur school production. We had a ways to go in our own training this much was obvious.

“I can Fly Pay you for my ticket,” I said, pulling out my phone, not knowing the modern protocol, but not wanting to assume he didn’t expect me to pay my own way.

“Why don’t we agree, whoever does the asking, does the paying.”

“That seems rather unfair. Men ask women out more than the other way around. And don’t say anything smart-alecky about gay couples. I don’t know how they arrange these things.”

Parker laughed. “Then, you’ll have to make a point of asking me out. That would be ace. I promise I’ll say yes.”

“Fair enough.” I said perplexed. There was a time when you had to wait the customary two or three days for a return call after a date before you found out whether there would be another date. Had this dynamic changed or was Parker or Englishmen different, in this way too? Again, I wished I could be my whole self; I would have asked.

Afterward we drove to Hampstead and ate at a food cart, which served the best fresh crepes I’d ever tasted. For the dinner course, I devoured a spinach and mascarpone cream one, while Parker ate a chicken and potato crepe. We shared a Belgian chocolate and banana crepe for desert. We sat on a green-slatted park bench beside the road, gobbling up our treats on paper plates with plastic forks.

It was a very nice evening, after all.

Chapter Eighteen

The fool doth think he is wise,

but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

—William Shakespeare,
As You Like It (5.1)

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FEBRUARY 22, 2026

My one-year regeneration anniversary was a couple of weeks ago! Becks, Inez and I celebrated my re-birthday at Cantina next to the Royal Festival Hall in Southbank. The best part of dinner (at four o’clock) was the tea and scones with clotted cream and jam. I could get used to this.

They’ve been doing well here, but their new business venture will take some time to get off the ground.

Becks has been back to Seattle a couple times, and the last time she ran into Michael at Whole Foods. She reported he looked fantastic and happy, not angry or so it didn’t seem. They met for coffee and she delivered the news of our adventures here. I felt the urge to call him just after she told us, but I didn’t. What would I say? It might have been easier earlier; it would be probably be even more awkward now.