MINOR IRRITATIONS

As the years roll by and the disposition unravels, I am more easily irked by things I once overlooked.

I don't like holding a door open for some cretin who walks on through and doesn't say a word. At the time, I might just mutter, "Thanks is the word you're looking for."

Hours later while dwelling on the incident, I might come up with something more sarcastically elaborate. "I have enjoyed being your personal doorman and look forward to serving you again soon."

I also don't like getting in an elevator where everybody acts like a robot. Face forward, no speaking, focus on the floor numbers. Do not … repeat … do not under any circumstances show humanity or acknowledge one another's existence.

I can do without people who are never on time for dates, meetings, or appointments. They don't apologize or feel guilty about it. And if they bother to mention it, they make excuses that put you on the defensive.

"C'mon, a half-hour late is not really late." "Okay, so I'm 45 minutes late--let's not get in a mood over it."

I can't stand people who carry on lengthy conversations and get annoyed when you "interrupt them" if only to remind them that you're still there.

And I don't like guys who try to impress you with their killer handshake. Some, often the mesomorphs, attempt to crush your phalanges and metacarpals while giving you a big toothy Tom Cruise grin.

The other handshake that grinds my teeth is when somebody grabs the tips of my fingers–which technically is a finger shake–and squeezes the bejesus out of them.

It makes me want to challenge him to an early-morning duel. In my Walter Mitty mind, I pull out a white glove and slap him in the face while saying, "6 AM and don't be late!"

@#$%*@
P.S. If there's anything that irritates you –that makes you want to fling plates against a brick wall—comment on it now. If I like it, I'll write it up and give you a plug on my next post.