I have nothing remotely exciting to relate on this fine day. Instead I offer you a load of rant and righteous indignation. And let me say that I feel fully entitled to it, perhaps because another birthday has come and gone for me. No big deal really as I have collected 46 of them. Now, I begin in earnest my metamorphosis into a crotchety old bag as I ask one simple question (for dramatic effect I yell with a thick St. John’s accent: “WHAT IN DA JAYSUS IS WRONG WIT PEOPLE?” I’m not talking about war criminals and serial killers here. No, no, I’m referring to everyday people, Mr. and Mrs. Ordinary Citizen. Ladies and gentleman, I implore you: Has decency and decorum abandoned us for good?

It started a few days ago when a completely harmless looking, reasonably clean, appropriately dressed man was walking toward me on the street in downtown Victoria. It was a bright, sunny afternoon with a cool breeze floating up from the Pacific and I was feeling the spring in my step that only Spring itself can create when WHAM! the contents of this man’s nose were sprayed at my feet. The offending blob was forced out at Mach 3 speed as he pressed his thumb against one nostril and blew for all he was worth through the other. Charming.

Then the next day, very near the site of the Great Snot Explosion of 2014, I was treated to such a string of profanity from some hipsters that even I, a proud potty-mouth, felt my ears were in danger of bleeding. And yesterday, the cake was iced. I was getting dressed in the locker room of my gym, surrounded by a gaggle of gals who had just finished whatever these young ones do to feel the burn. I laid my water bottle on the bench just in time for a woman to toss her completely sweat soaked T-shirt on the spout that I had planned on putting back in my mouth. She looked at it, mumbled out “Sorry,” and turned back to her locker. Incredulous, I formed my excellent reply, “Umm…” She reached back and took her shirt without another word.

I left the locker room distracted by my developing moral outrage. Consequently, despite being obviously engaged in creating a clear beeline for the door, I somehow ended up face to face with an overexcited class instructor, usually best avoided. In her high volume Valley Girl voice she said to me, “Aren’t you coming to Shred? Oh. My. Gaaa. It’s like totally awesome.” By that time I was back in full on menopausal menace mode, “Darling, thank you, but I do not … shred.” If only I’d had a silk scarf to flick over my shoulder as I left.

As they say on the Rock—I’m all in. I simply cannot cope with the public anymore. I must retire to my boudoir and wait for death. When people start wearing real clothes and talk like Gregory Peck and Katharine Hepburn again, then and only then shall I emerge. This is when I miss France. Flawed to be sure, and yes, Paris is literally littered with dog crap, but it is a nation still clinging to superficial civility and I respect that. I’m far too genteel for this crass, cruel world. They can all just stuff it up their arses, please and thank you.

 

 

 

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