Do you wonder if you’ve turned into a grumpy old lady/man, depending on your gender and use of personal pronouns? Or are you a non-specific, non-binary grumpy person?
You know, the sort who young folk see as being annoying, pedantic and fussy, possibly even wearing a cap as you drive slowly in the fast lane, or nit-pick about correct grammar.
The other day as I sat at a restaurant trying to enjoy a pleasant meal, I realised that I had crossed a threshold, a bit like crossing the Rubicon with no way back.
The restaurant was trendy, distressed brick work, exposed metal beams everywhere and a huge monitor dominating the wall space, with videos flashing psychedelic scenes, waiting for an unsuspecting person to have an epileptic fit. The music was loud, very loud, controlled by an ageing DJ, wearing a far too tight black T-shirt, who protected his own ears with ostentatiously big headphones.
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My friends and I had gathered to have a quick meal before a movie and were eating at the sensible hour of 6pm. Hardly the nightclub hour that the music seemed to be aimed at.
I asked the waitress to turn down the music. Politely, mind you. My friends and I had had quite enough of shouting across at each other, and our sign language skills are yet to be honed to a decent standard. Now my request does not seem like a crime punishable by extremes, but you would have thought I had committed regicide or some other cide. Is there a lovely Latin word for murdering a waitress?
The rolling of the eyes was the first telltale sign that I have entered the twilight zone of grumpy person. The young thing ignored my first request. I politely asked again, thinking she hadn’t heard me above the cacophonous din. But no, I was again soundly ignored.
I sat dumbfounded, then anger seethed. We continued to shout at each other across the table, while a few young children also added their wails to the sound waves reverberating around the room.
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Later, I caught the DJ’s eye as he occasionally removed himself from behind his booth and sauntered back and forth across the restaurant floor. He did seem conflicted in his job, poor man. Was he frustrated that no-one was dancing to his superb playlist, despite the fact that the majority of diners were elderly or in nappies?
I made what I thought were suitable hand gestures to the DJ. You know, hands across the ears, karate chops across the neck, fierce scowls and looks like thunder from my best teacher days. But to no avail.
I have lost my touch. My metamorphosis has been completed. I am now officially invisible and relegated to the rubbish bin of retired person. Persona non grata.
When the bill came, I refused to tip. And I left a bad review. Grumpiness does have some power.
Do you think people get grumpier as they age? Have you? Why not share your thoughts in the comments section below?
I think it starts with age discrimination in jobs. The old “you have got too much experience and you will get bored” doesn’t cut it.
I don’t think we become grumpier, just less tolerant as we age. Dianne and her friends could have upped and left the restaurant after the waitress took no notice of her request.