On a Wednesday at precisely 10am after dropping the kids at school, I needed new jeans and ran into a store. Nothing screams Gen Z like mom jeans, oversized sweatshirts and socks in crocs but only worn by beautiful people in an ironic way. My middle aged old lady self shoved my feet into hideous fur lined crocs for comfort and warmth, ever thankful that the next generation leads with grandpa fashion. But because I live in Montana in the winter and am not in fact 18.5 years old, I found myself attacked by the very ground and flat on my back. And then I heard it. A honk. Surely a goose of enormous size had witnessed my peril. The honk came out rusty and clanging like a barking cymbal. I shifted to find the water fowl. A man who was obviously out of practice and clearly never used his vocal chords for laughing, winked.