Well, here I am, 3 months into my second half a century, and I have to say, graceful is not a word commonly used for the way I’m aging.
In fact I would go so far as to say I’m a twisted mass of deranged hormones, and I’m starting to find it increasingly difficult to walk around with a smile plastered on my face. Yes, beneath this polite, unassuming exterior there’s an obnoxious, opinionated reprobate banging on the walls and screaming profanity.
When I think about it, I’m not even sure how I manoeuvred myself into the role of perky, cheerful humanist. I’ve spent 50 year disguising every emotion behind a cheery grin, because that seemed to be the best way to counter the negative energy that constantly bombards my aura. But don’t be fooled – behind this rictus of a smile, there raves a crazy woman teetering on the brink of hysteria.
I’m merely suffering from an overdose of all the normal stuff that everyone has to deal with – psychotically moody teenagers, a husband who acts like he’s auditioning for a role in Grumpy Old Men, religious extremists who think their faith makes them better than everyone else, while in fact … (well, let’s just leave it there, shall we?), an overcrowded city peopled by incorrigibly bad drivers. The usual thing.
Before I explode I think it might be time to take affirmative action and emancipate the dark side. I’m considering becoming one of those dreadful people who think “I just tell it like it is” is an excuse for bad manners. So, just don’t get in my way or you’ll hear a gruff voice behind you shouting “Move your fat arse”, or you’ll feel the tip of my umbrella nudging you along. How liberating to helpfully tell those surly sales assistants why they’re going to die alone unless they develop some social skills. And as for the passive aggressives – well I’m going to hide their shoes, and dole out backhanded compliments.
In a small way I started this morning, while we were shopping for one of those swanky touch-free taps. “What happens when the batteries run down?”, I asked of the sales associate. A reasonable question given that we live in a household where we will all watch the warning light for weeks (each time I use the tap I will kick myself for forgetting to buy batteries, and then the thought will drift into oblivion until the next time I use the tap) until the poor exhausted batteries finally splutter out their last pathetic dribble of power. I don’t want to find myself with a non-functioning tap and no batteries in the house.
Well, the helpful answer I received to my perfectly sensible question was “you put new batteries in”. After a withering look, I explained in words with very small syllables that what I really wanted to know was “will the tap still work?.
Ha ha, the sales associate laughed – “yes, that was a rather unhelpful answer, which I realized as soon as you looked at me like I have a monkey growing out of my ass”.
Okay, well that wasn’t too painful, was it? I think being rude and obnoxious might just work for me!
Is 50 too soon to don a purple hat and start blaming my age for all the terrible things I say?