By Katiedid Langrock

September 26, 2020 5 min read

I blame the cinnamon buns — or, more accurately, the lack of cinnamon buns.

My husband and I decided to make a last-minute detour to get away from the West Coast smoke. And because I'm a planner — and this wasn't planned — I found the process of finding and booking us an RV campsite entirely overwhelming. How to pick a campground? Do we want one with trees or with bushes? A site that faces east or west? With red picnic tables or blue tables? How do people make such impossibly hard decisions? And then, there it was, the sweet, sweet answer. My mouth began to salivate as I clicked on "book." I knew nothing about the campsite other than it offered morning cinnamon buns. That was enough to know we'd made the right choice — a clear sign from the gooey delicious gods of carbs and spice. We were in for a treat.

That is, until we rolled up and a sign on the door said, "Bakery closed for the season." Excuse me? Who does that? What kind of monster publicly announces an antidote to your woes in the form of hot, sticky salvation and then doesn't deliver? Is this some sort of a sick joke? The beginning to a horror flick like "Into the Woods"? Will the dough roller once used for crafting spiral-shaped snacks of pure delight now be used to pummel me to death the way the "bakery closed" sign pummeled my heart?

There is a worse thing, however, than being promised something as pure as a cinnamon bun and having it taken away: discovering the reason it disturbs you so.

This week, I discovered I am a millennial. It's a shock. I know. I, too, am adjusting to the news. I always knew that my year of birth technically qualifies me as a millennial, but you have to understand that there is a small but defiant cluster of cusper birth years, from 1981 to 1984, that aren't part of Generation X but didn't have access to the internet until middle school and didn't get trophies for no reason and have always had a hard time connecting to the millennial generation. Some call us Xennials. I have always enjoyed the term Oregon Trail generation, which is derived from the video game most of us had to play in school.

To prove this point, the picture I took of the very spot on the Snake River where, in "The "Oregon Trail," we were required to plug up the holes in our wagons and ford the river received ample excitement from my fellow microgeneration friends. Their comments about the many cyber family members they'd lost to snakebites and dysentery along the virtual trail made my Oregon Trail picture my most liked photo on Instagram.

Alas, I bring up Instagram for a reason.

Arriving at the new park, my son and I decided to take a 5-mile hike up to a gorgeous hidden lake. We weren't feeling as energized as we would have if there'd been copious consumption of cinnamon buns beforehand, but we trekked on as best we could. The sight from the top lake was incredible. Otherworldly. Perhaps the most gorgeous place I've ever been.

In the distance, my son and I saw a group of people taking pictures of the scenery. We figured they probably had a better view, but who wants a picture with strangers bombing the photo? We opted to stay where we were, taking picture after picture of ourselves — until a woman came over to us and said, "You're missing the bears."

Bears? My son and I ran over, only to hear from the crowd that we had missed watching the bears playing in the water across the lake by mere seconds.

That's the moment; I knew I had to accept my true generational title. I had missed bears, something I had desperately wanted to see, because I had been taking selfies.

Like a millennial.

And why was I so obsessed with seeing bears? Because I've loved bears ever since the "Care Bears" TV show came out. In 1985.

Making them millennials.

Ultimately, I blame the cinnamon buns. If they'd been readily available, I wouldn't have mourned them for so long that morning, and we would have gotten an earlier start on our hike and seen the bears. I've loved them since Cinnabon came out. In 1985.

Even my favorite breakfast is a millennial.

I guess it's time to post that selfie of me eating a cinnamon roll in my Care Bear pajamas. Yes, that picture does exist.

Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at Follow Katiedid Langrock on Instagram, at To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at

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