God save me from the 26-year-old editors

I'm not a religious person, but tonight I have one prayer and one prayer only: "Please God, please save me from the 26-year-old editors."

It's not that I'm jealous of their toned penmanship and taut critiques, their uber-slim fonts and invisibly small mobile phones ...It's something bigger.

These 26-year-olds are taking over the publishing industry. Everyone who is not Arianna Huffington -- wait, does Arianna have one n or two? Ah, who cares -- or Anna Wintour is under 30. Because they are under 30 and were raised on laptops and notebooks and iPods and now iPads and Blackberries, these brats think they know everything.

Last week, the problem was an idiot copyeditor at YeHaw (not the real name, but use your imagination) who changed everything I wrote in a stupid format-style piece of content I never should have stooped to write, and then when they edited my bio they spelled the word "writings" as "writngs." That's right - no second "i". Of course, it was stupid enough that this idiot had used the word "writings" instead of "articles."

So I quit those jokers -- not because of the aforementioned idiocy, but because Yehaw's 32-year-old megagazoponillionare in Santa Monica (you do the Googling) had all ready made a small fortune off all the other Yehaw articles I'd written about miniskirts and trips to Bermuda with Grandma. The copyeditor of the writngs spelling had been too stupid to look my name up in the database before she instructed me on how to write.

Then today, another site (I am too paranoid to come up with a funny name for this one) had their beeyatch goddess twerp a one liner to me about how I might be better off writing for another part of the site. She presented this in a way to poke me (not in the friendly Facebook way, but in the beyatchy school cheerleader way) and make me feel bad about my original defense of her ridiculous criticism. She had claimed that my report on, let's say Honolulu fish shacks, had nothing to do with let's say, Waipahu Hairstylers. (Waipahu is 14 mi from Honolulu.)

I lost it: I told her this was an interesting comment coming from a woman who had never responded to my inquiry about why I hadn't gotten a raise. Of course I didn't say it quite like that, but she caught my drift. Then I was so twisted in knots I ate an entire package of Peeps (just five marshmallow pull-aparts).

Taking a breath and reflecting, I realize that the problem is not with 26-year-old editors so much as what they represent: their inane, egotistical assumption that anyone over 40 (ok, pushing 50 big time) should be put out to pasture.

I am not sure what the answer is or answers are. I am heartened by the fact that I've written for AARP once before and have a story possibly coming up for summer publication. This is cheery on many levels: the money I am making from these content providers is pretty much pushing me into homelessness, whereas AARP pays $2 per word; and secondly, on Aug. 19 I turn 50, just old enough to actually join AARP.

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