As an adult at the outermost limit of middle age, I admit to embracing two bits of pop psychology by which I try to live out my days: staying in touch with my inner child, and not sweating the small stuff.
Generally, the two popular wisdoms co-exist side-by-side rather peaceably. In addition to being playful and potty-trained, I have also learned to be rather tranquil about life’s little inconveniences. I try to keep my head when all around me are losing theirs, and generally maintain a calm demeanor even while on hold for thirty minutes and forced to listen to Kenny G.
If dates get cancelled, they can be rescheduled. If I miss a train, there’s the next one. If I burn the toast, there’s still another slice in the loaf. No need to get upset. That’s me most of the time. Mature and dry.
I knew this day would come. I’ve been dreading its arrival for over three years. It’s that very disquieting sensation of tranquility, however temporary, when your existence has reached an unsettling plateau of comfort. And, try as you will, you just can’t seem to find anything to complain about.
I know how enviable the circumstance in which I currently find myself may appear, but when you’re engaged in a pursuit that requires kvetching, this situation is a disaster! It’s humiliating. I am an embarrassment to my ancestors.
How could it be that my life has no respect for my deadline, self-imposed as it is? An essay is due, and I am gripe-less.
Friends – even if you are one of those people who claim to be only vaguely interested in television, and swear that you watch only PBS soap operas, British spy movies, The History Channel, or Bloomberg Business, you must be aware that the new season is upon us. I, for one, am an unabashed TV viewer, and I confess this with the same courage with which I owned up to my Cool Whip addiction. I do not ask for forgiveness.
As devoted as I am to police dramas, post-mortem dissections, and Jeopardy, I have so far failed to understand the public’s attraction to Reality TV. I have experienced it at least enough to decide that even five minutes is four minutes too long. I find Honey Boo-Boo exactly that, and if I had watched the Kardashian daughters when I was in my child-bearing years, I probably would have run to my ob-gyn demanding to have my tubes tied.
It isn’t every day that one buys a new automobile. Therefore, it should be an occasion marked with at least some measure of anticipation and excitement as I drive the shiny, as yet undented chariot off the dealer’s lot. So why do I feel like I want to go directly home, cover my mirrors, and sit on a hard wooden box for a week?
Yes, I am in mourning for my old car, which didn’t die exactly, but was economically disposed of as a trade-in for a newer, more fuel-efficient, somewhat smaller version of itself. I had convinced myself that its time had come and I needed to let it go before it became unreliable. The decision was buoyed by my adult children, who are secure in the knowledge that being of a certain age themselves, they now know what’s best for me. They couldn’t quite understand how their mother cared so little for her safety that she didn’t have a back-up screen. Hey, I’ve been craning my neck for years, and only occasionally have stone walls made contact with my rear end.
I have a bone to pick with Hollywood. Which just goes to show how annoyed I am, that so soon after the festival of engorgement I’m still talking about picking on bones!
Do you like movies? Do you like going to the movies, or are you one of those people who prefer sitting on your couch with a Netflix rental or scrolling through the On Demand list for something worth watching? If you are the latter, then don’t bother reading any further. You just won’t get it.
But if you’re like me, and enjoy getting out of the house and, for the price of a senior ticket, watching a good film on a really big screen with Dolby sound (whatever that is) then perhaps you’ll share my frustration at not living in a Select City.
I don’t know about you, but the longer I live, the more I become aware of daily irritants. These niggling events pose a threat to the inner peace to which I feel entitled. I mean, once you reach a certain age, have you not earned the right to punch the person next to you on the train because, for the entire length of the trip, you are forced to listen to the annoying thumping sounds leaking out of his ear buds? And you can’t change your seat because the train is crowded?
But that action runs the risk that the person with the pumped up I-Pod might actually punch you back. Or worse. And he is younger and stronger than you are.