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Working with the public over the years has allowed me a broad spectrum view of the descent into crabbiness that affects many people over the age of say, 47. I am not speaking of having an off day here, health crises, true depression or enduring a blue funk.
This is something different.
I believe it’s a habit as much as a condition that some people (usually men, there, I said it) fall into after a certain age and ironically, there is nothing more aging than becoming a Grumpy Old Man in your forties.
Nothing.
For some reason, the bleakness often seems to be accompanied by a sense of certainty about how dreadful life is: the Middle East conflict is beyond hope and can only escalate, check; obsessiveness about the worst weather on record which may be happening tomorrow (and, if it doesn’t, it’s easy to slide that rage right over to the deficient meteorologists for getting it wrong) check; life has passed them by, now that their movie-star good looks have faded and every time they exit a chair or sofa they insist on making a loud “Ack!” or whooshing sound just to be sure that everyone within a few feet knows it, check; taking every opportunity to tell bored, often appalled young people that they should enjoy life now because once they get a) married b) become saddled with kids c) buy a home d) become older than about 22, it’s basically downhill and will be over all too soon. (This kind of torschlusspanik doom should not even be referenced to the young since they are in no place to truly comprehend it), but you know, check.
My personal favorite though is the full-on loathing of any kind of social media even though many of them have no real experience of it but often speak with swash-buckling confidence, as if they do. One reference I overheard lately was a heated, ‘knowledgeable’ debate about “myface” which I’m pretty sure is not a thing.
Other Malapropisms abound including “twerking” instead of “tweeting.” (One older man was waving his newly acquired iphone and seeking assistance from library staff to “twerk out” his thoughts, an image that still haunts my dreams). And just yesterday someone wanted help in obtaining a “web presence” which they needed (not unlike a coupon) in order to get a discount on their home internet. Rage and irritation soon followed when they found out that not only could I not help but it was certain to be more than ten minutes and they were illegally parked …
Make it stop.
The Grumpy Old Man syndrome is often combined with what we call at home The Man in the Yellow Pants.
Often seen in restaurants flirting with young, beautiful servers these men churn out bad, re-heated jokes and actually believe that the waitress is interested when she laughs a nervous, pony laugh. They also lean in and say things like “No thanks, I’m hot enough baby!” when offered the 36 inch pepper grinder.
It’s all very unfortunate.
At the current writing, I am pleased to report that The General, as an older man himself, seems to be completely exempt from any of this, being a Sunny Sagittarian and not prone to darkness.
(And, also having been threatened by myself.)
He does sometimes wax nostalgic for the MadMen years though and the golden summers he enjoyed as a boy, but remembering how the warm clover smelled as he lay on his stomach playing with a sailboat in the stream or lamenting the cessation of The Beatles and/or Eisenhower is not what we ‘re talking about here. Besides, as The General himself will tell you, his “opinions” are always valid and relevant.
(And, he has never shown an interest in yellow pants.)
Just in closing, I recently halted an older gentleman I know quite well in mid-rant (and it’s been many years of the same rantings) and said gently: “Okay! You win! Life is absolutely terrible. But now what? Does being right make you feel better? What now?” He seemed astonished. He had not realized that he was complaining – honestly and completely unaware – and proceeded to regale me with many of the wonderful things in life, how I had misunderstood him etc.
The point is, he had no idea how his unconscious, possibly enjoyable (to him) complaining was affecting everyone else.
I have no idea if this is a psychological phenomenon of some kind (think:early Woody Allen) but it seemed profound.
What do you think?
And what of the grumpy old women? I’ve very much descended into being one myself, and am quite enjoying it.
I am quickly rummaging through my wardrobe, attempting to ferret out any yellow pants.