The joys of Generation Right Now

The heir-apparent has been on a roll lately, succeeding at school and at home, going above and beyond what the adults in his household consider mandatory for the standard-issue American 10-year-old male. And so, when he came seeking a modest favor, his Dad was favorably predisposed toward granting it.

He'd been browsing on Amazon.com for packages of Silly Bandz, those oddly ubiquitous bracelets made of brightly colored silicone and molded into eye-arresting configurations: animals, signs and other iconic shapes. They are this year's Beanie Babies, this season's Zsu-Zsu Pets.

"It's the craze that's sweeping the nation," the heir apparent said, perfectly parroting the phrase he read on some other Bandz-related Web site. Yet another unfortunate example of Madison Avenue insidiousness having woven its way into the lad's consciousness notwithstanding, his Dad joined him in front of the laptop; he was, as noted, inclined to reward his recent exemplary behavior.

They quickly settled on a package of wild animals, a 12-pack that promised to include the rare and, evidently, coveted porcupine. It turns out Silly Bandz are unlike baseball trading cards, which come in foil packages that prevent foreknowledge of the contents. For whatever reason - and the Dad didn't need to know it to be grateful - the good folks at Silly Bandz practice a policy of full disclosure.

Then, the shipping options. "For delivery by Tuesday, order in the next six hours and 37 minutes and choose one-day shipping!" he read, his voice rising in excitement. "By Tuesday!"

It was Sunday afternoon, a month shy of his 11th birthday, and the miracle that is FedEx had entered his world - absent, of course, the impractical financial obligation.

He was advised that two-day shipping would suffice - first because it was free (actually, included in an annual fee paid to Amazon), and also because there are extraordinarily few things in this life that are not worth an extra day's wait.

The lad's household spent most of the ensuing 72 hours discovering just how underdeveloped is his sense of patience. Parts of Monday and much of Tuesday were spent reassuring him that, unless a natural disaster intervened, Wednesday would bring his package. Then Wednesday arrived and it was, "When? What time?" Hard to say. "Say anyway." Most likely before 4, possibly while you're at school. "You're sure?" Pretty sure.

Good old days?

At some point it occurred that we are rearing a generation that could not have survived the privations of our own youth, when obtaining exotic prizes often included the arduous and time-consuming task of collecting box tops or wrappers, at long last stuffing them into an envelope with mom's check for $2.50 postage and handling and an order form that included the dreaded phrase, "Please allow six weeks for delivery."

Today, the robust and creative American entrepreneurial spirit has shattered the barriers formerly separating the folks from their innate and insatiable pursuit of instant gratification (or, in the case of two-day delivery, darn-near instant gratification).

This not a bad development. Nonetheless, there are times when the Dad wonders whether some of the important lessons taught by the crude, but quaint, arrangements that prevailed in the previous century haven't been sacrificed to expediency. Gathering box tops and the like honed valuable skills in perseverance and organization; waiting out the postal service cultivated patience and helped us appreciate the exquisite emotion that is anticipation.

Is it possible that much of what ails us as a people today - we are quick to irritate, swift to scapegoat, eager to demand - can be traced, at least in part, to the fact that technology caught up with a primal desire that maybe shouldn't have been indulged in the first place?

Oh, who am I kidding? We are creatures not just of now, but of Right Now. We instant message. We tweet random thoughts. Pizza arrives, hot and fresh, inside a half-hour. Wait? Whatever for?

Lack of patience

So, back to Wednesday, in which the Dad's presupposed deadline came and went, allowing the heir-apparent to demonstrate a lack of patience that was predictable and lamentable. He vanished upstairs to tackle some homework, only to return a few minutes later. Was it here yet? No. He wandered into the backyard, came back. Now? No.

They went online, the Dad and the heir-apparent, clicked on the order and traced its shipping history. Last seen, it had been placed in the possession of a courier; it was "out for delivery."

"See?" said the father, "It's on its way. It'll be here." He was reminded of a time when he was not so much older than the boy when he'd mail-ordered a model race car, and, beginning on the fourth week - his own capacity for patience had not yet blossomed - raced from school to the mail box every day until, sometime late in the prescribed sixth week, it arrived.

The Dad remembers the days of expectation every bit as warmly as he does the first day he took the car for a spin at the neighborhood slot car shop. He doubts his son will recall, even next week, any similar emotion connected to the two antsy hours he spent pacing until, just before 6 p.m., an unmarked van arrived in the driveway, bearing a small box with the trademark Amazon swoosh.

Inside was the promised package, and inside it was the rare and, evidently, coveted porcupine. The longest 72 hours this side of Christmas week was over, and against the odds, the heir-apparent had survived.

So should we all.