July 8, 1983
A few not-favorite things
Maybe it’s the heat… maybe not.
It just seems that a lot of things bother me lately.
Maybe it’s just creeping old age.
Like standing in a long 10-item-or-less express line, waiting to check out one carton of milk, counting the items in the woman’s basket in front of me and coming up with 29.
Like trying to find a seat in a crowded theater that isn’t in front of or behind a person who’s talking … incessantly and loudly.
Like settling down on a quiet stretch of beach only to be joined, blanket to blanket, by a young couple blasting hard rock from a portable stereo.
Like finding that purple blotch of bird dropping right on dead center of my freshly-washed burgundy-colored car.
Like finding dried mud kitty paws all over the seats of the car after leaving it, windows open, for a few hours.
Like being kept awake during the wee small hours by the unrelenting barking of a neighbor’s dog.
Like buying a pink skirt in one store and finding, under the lights of another, that it’s pale lavender.
Like settling down in front of the TV for a rare night of viewing a favorite old movie only to find it chopped to bits and interspersed with inane commercials.
Like repeating an order over the fast-food intercom to be sure it’s right and then finding a crucial item missing … after I get home.
Like being beaten into a front-row parking space at the mall by a little car that zips in front of me after I’ve waited, signal on, for the leaving auto to clear out.
Like people at a bank drive-up window who ties up traffic by transacting lengthy and complicated business.
Like customers who are rude or nasty to checkout clerks for any reason whatever.
Like parents who think malicious mischief on the parts of their darlings is “cute.”
Like the guy in front of me at the toll booth on the Parkway who needs directions to Timbuktu … and argues with the toll-taker about how to get there.
Like the casino buses on the expressway that zoom up on a law-abiding motorist, follow too closely for a short while and then pass doing about 85.
Like the state troopers who don’t see buses speeding—only auto drivers.
Like digital alarm clocks that go blink, blink, blink when the power goes out in the middle of the night, making me late for work when I oversleep in the morning.
Like finding that my name has been sold to a million junk mailers, all of whom send official-looking letters asking for money.
I’m sure you all could supply me with reams more of this fun kind of complaining.
Life is more interesting because of the situations we run into day after day, but sometimes it all gets to be just too much.
Just once, I’d like the line I move into at the supermarket or the bank to keep moving instead of stopping while the person in front ties us all up.
Just once, I’d like that short-cut I took to get somewhere faster to really be short.
Just once, I’d like a speaker who says he’ll be brief to be brief.
And just once, I’d like the driver of the car that comes to a stop at an intersection ahead of me to let me know, before the light turns green, that he intends to turn left instead of making me wait until he gets a break.
Dream on.
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