Ye Gods, what happens to us as we age? Thirty years ago I wanted to change the world. Now, I just want to change the light switch plates in my kitchen.

How do we go from writing “How true!” along the margins of Jack Kerouac novels to cutting out lemon bar recipes from Better Homes & Gardens?

Or from not having a care in the world to complaining to hotel management about the free breakfast bar’s danish selection?

The more I ponder this the more I embrace Kurt Vonnegut’s line: “Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists.” And what’s even more disappointing is the subsequent pettiness that this disappointment brings in the form of generational resentment.

…it wasn’t the young but the old who ignited my generational ire.

In our minds we’re forever young and forever hip, the eternal pacesetters for cultural cool. It’s the other generations who refute this, serving as the pins that pop our delusional bubbles. And rather than accept the reality that we’ve gone from heedlessly leaping over the passenger doors of friends’ convertibles to now patiently waiting for the automatic sliding doors on Chevy minivans, we fault the younger generations for tethering us to our midlife realities.

Yet, ironically, it wasn’t the young but the old who ignited my generational ire. It began when that meddlesome Tom Brokaw used his celebrity to rename the G.I. Generation the “Greatest Generation.” As much as it was a high-five to my parent’s era, it was a backhanded punch at my generation, the Baby Boomers.

The mere mention of the Greatest Generation conveys lofty images of ticker-tape parades, brass bands on every street corner, and apple pies, with perfect crust, in every open window. Conversely, Baby Boomer sounds like the name of an infant laxative.

Admittedly, the alleged Greatest Generation does have a leg up on Baby Boomers when it comes to generational high-water marks. Liberating Europe under the leadership of General Patton sounds far more momentous than converting an upstate New York cornfield into a concert venue under the guidance of Wavy Gravy. Beyond that, I think Brokaw owes us Baby Boomers an apology. Or better yet a book, extolling our virtues and accomplishments. He could title it, “Not Quite the Greatest Generation, But Surpassingly Better Than the Latest Two Generations.”

I don’t have a complaint with Generation X (1964– 1981). Only sympathy. Any generation that had to endure disco, the music world’s version of Type 2 diabetes, during its formative years deserves a pass from criticism. Not so, however, with Generation Y (1982–2000) and Generation @ (2000–?). These two generations are society’s version of acne: not necessarily bad, but extremely annoying. Their sense of entitlement has no bounds. When I turned 16 I was grateful for a restaurant dishwashing job. When they turn 16 they expect restaurant ownership.

Maybe the inevitable generation gap between eras isn’t so much born from differences but from blind jealousies.

And what basis will these two generations have when they reach middle age for using the obligatory “We-had-it-so-tough-when-I-was-your-age” line on their kids?

What possibly can they say? When I was your age McDonald’s had only one drive-thru order lane? Or when I was your age we ate watermelons with seeds? Or even when I was your age we wore shirts that wrinkled?

Whenever the first stages of grumpy-old-man syndrome get too loud, I take solace in knowing I’m not alone. Generational differences have existed through history. According to William Strauss and Neil Howe’s book, “Generations,” the grouping and naming of generations goes back to the 13th century, starting with the Arthurian Generation. Dating from 1433 to 1460, it gave the world Leonardo da Vinci and Christopher Columbus. This was then followed by the Humanist Generation, which ran from 1461 to 1482 and produced Michelangelo and Copernicus.

I’m sure even then generational differences existed. Teenage girls from the Arthurian Generation, who once busied themselves writing “Mrs. Da Vinci” in the sand with sticks surrounded by big hearts, probably repeatedly mocked their daughters with icy comments like, “I don’t see what you find so dreamy about this Copernicus boy.” Leonardo da Vinci devotees probably dismissed Michelangelo’s ceiling paintings as the work of a misguided youth crazed on nutmeg.

Regardless, none of this answers why we blame other generations for our tendency to become fading echoes of our former selves.

Maybe the inevitable generation gap between eras isn’t so much born from differences but from blind jealousies. We resent the younger generations for reminding us what we once were.

How else to explain our haughty dismissal of this generation’s longrunning “Survivor” TV show as mindless drivel, while, in the same breath, championing the brilliance of “Gilligan’s Island”?