DO YOU find that as your grow older, each time you watch a re-run of the Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau film Grumpy Old Men it seems less funny?
The world is growing grumpier by the day, I think … and I came across a study this week which is really getting my grump-o-meter into the toxic zone.
According to Psychological scientist Angelina Sutin, of Florida State University College of Medicine, people nearly always became more satisfied with life – LESS grumpy – as they aged.
Apparently this study was done involving the National Institute on Aging (NIA) at the National Institutes of Health (NIH). So, I guess it’s fair dinkum, but I would’ve bet a bottle of bile against it up to now.
The trouble is, the study indicates what I most fear and which makes me grumpiest – it might just be me!
I find I can’t watch the TV news without giving a full critical commentary of nearly every story. At a great decibel level.
Mrs Whacked will come running into the lounge room: “What’s wrong! What’s wrong? … oh, you’re watching the news again.”
And I’ll reply by repeating all the innane, wrong, stupid, dangerous, deceitful, useless stuff I’d just heard, and she smiles sweetly and says: “I don’t think shouting at the nice man reading the news is going to help. I don’t think he can hear you.”
Well, of course, I know that. Most times.
It might just be me, I suppose.
But I find myself going off the top of the Grumpy Scale within nanoseconds when I come across people who do things like:
Going through the 10-items-or-less check-out with 27 items. It was not a mistake. They must have known they were over the limit.
Don’t indicate, or indicate halfway through a turn. This is much more prevalent in Bendigo than Melbourne.
Chuck empty beer bottles on the roadside outside my house.
Stuff the newspaper holder on the gate full of un-asked-for newspapers, catalogues and stuff when it says “No Junk Mail.”
Phone me at meal times.
Put bloody pickle jar lids on so tightly that you tear a bicep trying to open it. I often remark to Mrs Whacked: “How do little old ladies ever eat pickles? No wonder they’re all so bloody thin!” She smiles sweetly …
Put bloody pickle jar lids on so tightly that you tear a bicep trying to open it
Guess how my sentence is going to end and then … end it for me….usually quite incorrectly.
Call me Greg. Or Graham. It shows they were not listening and did not really care much. (This became weird some years ago when I was working on a little country weekly paper and my stand-in when I went on holidays was Greg Wayne. True story.)
That’ll do. Mrs Whacked, smiling sweetly, says it’s time for my nap.