Finally, on board, still mad, I thought I’d fix my new nemesis’ little red wagon. Even before the flight took off I’d named him in a furious missive tapped out to customer service. Because they don’t have –anything better to do than deal with a princess ranting because she wasn’t first on a plane.
Two days later, my husband had the Skoda serviced. Did they fix the back wiper? Nah, he said. Still squeaks. Right, said I. First thing Monday I’m calling, and they can fit it back in immediately. Had it up to here. Nothing worse than a squeaky wiper. Etc.
A new gym opened around the corner. First day of classes the instructor told me to rest between sets. Convinced he was having an ageist crack, I arked up: “I’m not paying $44 a week to rest. Remind me of your name.”
During that last episode I did have some awareness that I was being a massive loser, but the plane thing has me really worried.
I’ve now vowed to assess situations properly, take time before reacting, let things go. I’m loading up on magnesium, have cut sugar to one Aldi passionfruit ice cream per day and seen a naturopath to talk stress. I’d love to know what’s driving the privileged behaviour.
A friend laughed grimly: “Ha. I stormed out of the house today because I couldn’t get the sticky tape off an Amazon parcel. I’ve had a plastic Pilates ring sent around the world wrapped in half a rainforest and miles of tape and I’m furious I can’t get into the box.”
It’s convenient to blame hair trigger outrage on grim times pandemic, monkeypox, foot and mouth, inflation, housing prices, war, winter, Collingwood playing well – but truth is, I’m slowly bowing to the inevitability of my middle-class biological destiny as a hall-of-fame Karen.
Let me know if there’s a cure or survivors’ group.
Kate Halfpenny is the founder of Bad Mother Media.
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