Esther McCarthy: They say you get calmer with age, what a load of rubbish
As I begin my gentle descent into the land of zimmer-frame catalogues and researching who the good hip replacement fella is, I’ve decided to embrace the fury.
It feels like people never shut up about the downsides of ageing. But honestly, there are plenty of pros to this gig.
The main one being the unappealing alternative. Every day is a privilege, and an honour, and we should all give a couple of beats every day we don’t wake up dead to acknowledge this glorious miracle of existence.
Some of my friends say you get this deep sense of calm as you get older, something about perspective, and lived experience, and of course, survival.
That all sounds grand, gals, but recently I’ve been very much enjoying that lovely, satisfying feeling of getting randomly pissed off at unexpected things. Dare I say it’s life-affirming?
As I begin my gentle descent into the land of zimmer-frame catalogues and researching who the good hip replacement fella is, I’ve decided to embrace the fury.
And since my memory currently resembles a damp leaky teabag, (so sorry again about forgetting to pick you up Great Grandauntie Doreen, though in fairness, the A&E doctor did say the late-night walk was good for you, shur your step count was through the roof, you should be thanking me really), I’m combining my love of a list with the everyday nonsense that keeps my blood pressure thrillingly above average.
Yes, yes, we all know there’s a long history of dodgy lyrics.
Willie Shakespeare was probably ruminating about “wenches who twerketh good” in 1592, paving the way for Dr Dre and Robin Thicke.
But my latest bugbear is that silky-voiced Honoluluan Bruno Mars; his new song is constantly on the radio. I’m fair hoarse from roaring back at him.
“Hey, Mister DJ (oh-oh-oh).” What, no female DJs exist now, Mister Mars?
“Play a song for this pretty little lady.”
GRRRRRRR!
“’Cause if she dance as good as she look right now.”
I beg your pardon? So women must now be gorgeous AND risk pulling a hammie to earn your approval? Then the closer — “I just might make her my baby.”
Might you, Bruno? How sound! Has she been consulted at all? Women aren’t babies, you tool, and they are not all waiting for you to decide whether you choose to take them home or not.
Langball.
Mother’s Day this year was lovely.
A gorgeous homemade card that I forced them to make, lots of plants and flowers, and a box of one of my favourite indulgences, the red Lindors.
I tucked them away in the larder. (Please note that I have a larder now. I never thought that would be a brag, and yet here we are)
So I went to treat myself with the only balls that get me excited these days, and lo! The box was empty.
Not one left. The dirty hungry bastards.
On the upside, I can now lord this over them the next time there’s a forensic enquiry into who ate all three cheese and onion flavour out of the multipack.
Yes, it was I, but remember Lindorgate? That’ll shut them up.
Langballs.
Nothing gets me dancing like a car taking up two spaces. I go full Rumplestiltskin inside in the multistories. It’s not pretty.
And not to generalise, but in my personal experience, it’s always the massive, luxury cars. I haven’t ever seen a Toyota Yaris diagonally draped across a car park, is all I’m saying.
It’s always a spaceship yoke parked like its owner thought it was docking the Titanic. LEARN TO DRIVE!!
Langballs.
I always I wouldn’t use them, from the day they were introduced, but I found myself caught with only a couple of items, and only one cashier with a big queue recently.
So I took a deep breath and went for it.
“Unexpected item in bagging area.”
Yes, it’s the item I just scanned, you lying insentient tell tale tattler. Every time that red light flashes, a 17-year-old in a fleece looms over my shoulder to verify I’m not trying to smuggle a cabbage in my undergarments.
The machines are meant to save time, but this one ended with an existential crisis and a moral victory over the veggie scale. I just want to make lunch, I muttered to the machine.
Langball.
So no, I haven’t reached that mystical midlife “sense of calm” I hear people banging on about. Roaring at Bruno Mars in traffic isn’t very zen, to be fair.
But if I have to spend this stage of my life furious at lazy lyrics, chocolate thieves, and diagonal Range Rovers, so be it.
The latest thrill? Embracing the rage
