I did not sleep last night. This caused distress. Distress turned into general upsetness, and while that upsetness was momentarily vanquished by an attempt at staying positive, it eventually turned into a list of things that I probably shouldn’t get annoyed with, but totally do anyway.
Clapping Along With Songs
You are at a concert. Or in church. Or stalking a public summer wedding in Central Park. And the band starts encouraging people to clap along with the music. At first you’re all, “yay! clapping!” but after you clap for a few minutes you realize it really isn’t as fun as it sounds and you’re off-rhythm because you apparently weren’t born to be a percussionist and you don’t want to clap anymore so you try to fizzle out your clapping and you hope no one notices, but there is always that one person who does notice and they glare at you like you are ruining it for everyone else and you can’t even enjoy the music anymore because that one person thinks you should be clapping.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only person in the world who gets angry about this, but then I start thinking “What if everyone else actually hates it too? What if that person that was glaring at me hates it and they were only glaring at me because they were jealous that I got to stop clapping while they had to keep clapping? And what if the band actually hates it? And what if we’re all only doing it because we think everyone else likes it but actually they don’t?” … I am pretty sure that that is exactly what is happening.
Pants in General, But Jeans in Particular
Who came up with the idea that wearing tight denim was a good idea? And why do we keep reaffirming this person’s mistaken notion? Unless you work on a farm or in an auto-repair shop (or you are Brett Favre) you probably have no reason to wear jeans.
Let’s think about this: We, as consumers, have the option of buying pants made out of stretchy cotton and elastic, but instead we choose to wear pants made out of a thick, movement-restricting fabric with totally useless little brass buttons sewn on the butt (go ahead – check the back of your jeans – there are pointless buttons on the corners of all the pockets). And they have to be buttoned shut with a giant button that basically presses it’s way right into your digestive tract when you bend forward. And they have to be closed with a zipper and held up with a belt because obviously no one has invented a material that can be used to make a stretchy waistband yet. And there is always that one tiny pocket inside the main pocket.
What am I supposed to use that pocket for? Doesn’t having something already inside my pocket defeat the purpose of a pocket? Why wouldn’t I just put my objects in the bigger pocket? Oh, I remember – because the bigger pocket can’t really accommodate real objects either!
I put my cell phone in the front pocket of my jeans one time and I got a bruise on my pelvis because I got all excited about something and started dancing but I forgot I had a cell phone crammed into the pocket of my jeans and I lifted my thigh too fast which jammed the cell phone into my pelvis. Is that something that should happen in a world where there are robotic vacuum cleaners? No. It is not.
Made Up Car Names That Are Not Even Real Words
I could be walking down the street, minding my own buisness, and then WHAM! An Oldsmobile Achieva grooves on into my world. Achieva? Really? Was it that terrible to just call it Achieve and be completely honest about what you’re trying to tell the world about your automobiling success? I don’t even think the Oldsmobile Achieva was remotely successful. Someone just needs to find all of the Achievas and meld them into one big steel statue of a giant hand doing a thumbs-up. I bet that would’ve done more for the self-esteem of the people at Oldsmobile that the Achieva.
The VW Touareg? Tiguan? Routan? The Pontiac Parisienne? (These may be legitimate foreign words that I am just choosing to Google and pretend to feign anger over.)
Why can’t we name cars things like The Mitsubishi Chariot Grandio Super Exceed and just be awesome at using the English language?
Leftover Microwave Numbers
On the majority of most frozen food items, there will be an instructional series of directions imprinted on the backside of the cardboard. In these directions, there will be a designated numerical lapse of time that you will be asked to microwave your food item for, as decided by the gods of the frozen food aisle (I’m assuming).
Sometimes your item will be ready for consumption before the time has fully elapsed. This is perfectly normal: open the microwave, extract boiling Hot Pocket, close microwave. And press the “Clear” button.. PRESS THE CLEAR BUTTON.
Because, seriously, when will you ever need that :23 seconds you have left over? More importantly, how could you possibly know that you will need it the next time you are to use the microwave? Have you ever come across a microwave with you desired time magically leftover on the digital screen? Didn’t think so. And besides, with all the popcorn and pizza and chubby bunny buttons our modern-day microwaves have, I’m pretty sure the inventors of your microwave would be offended if you didn’t use their convenient buttons for your Hot Pocket pleasure.
Being Asked “Are You Finding Everything Okay?” By Store Employees
You know when you are just walking around in the grocery store or The Gap or Fantasy World XXX and out of nowhere one of the employees walks up behind you, scares the crap out of you, and asks, “Are you finding everything okay?”. This will cause you to drop the tube of cookie dough/hoodie/vibrator you were holding onto the floor, and probably subsequently purchase it under the overly-judgemental eye of the i-only-got-a-high-school-diploma shift manager.
Okay, even if none of that cookie dough shenanigan happens and still the store employee walks up to you and politely inquires, “Are you finding everything okay?” — you might not be finding everything okay, but you’re pretty freaking positive that you don’t want help. Because that would mean having to walk around the grocery store with a stranger and you are really socially awkward but you’ll have to make small talk while looking for the item (that you will probably be unable to find successfully). Eventually, you’ll want give up on finding the item altogether, but NO – no matter how much you reassure the salesperson that you really don’t need pimento relish that badly, they always end up calling the manager about it and then the manager looks at you like you are the only idiot in the whole world who would ever want pimento relish and that it is totally ridiculous for you to expect to find it in his grocery store even though you knew that already and had, in fact, already given up on finding it but the salesperson wouldn’t let you so it’s technically not even your fault. But the manager doesn’t know that and he’ll make eleven pointless phone calls to every branch of that grocery store before simply informing you that no one in the world carries pimento relish except maybe in Mexico or your home state of Arizona and you are back where you started except for now everyone is angry and you are hungry and homesick.
I know the employees are just trying to be helpful/not get fired, but I am an adult and I am fully capable of advocating for myself if I want or need help. The fact that I have already been asked if I need help by twenty million different people just starts to make me feel insecure about this image I must be projecting to the world.
Chasing After a Ping-Pong Ball
I’m fairly positive that there are little minions who dwell inside every existing ping-pong ball with the sole intention to one day bounce their way to eternal freedom. Every time one of those balls escapes from their original use, they go hog wild and bounce their way to the completely opposite side of wherever you are standing like there’s no tomorrow.
Once the ping-pong ball is finally grasped inside my hands, I feel like I have to hold onto it for a few seconds to regain normality and somehow cancel out any spinning motion/freedom quest that may still be occurring.
I have yet to come across a minionless ping-pong ball.
The Way People Walk in Flip-Flops
Waiting in Line
My reason for waiting in line always seems so much more urgent and important than anything the people in front of me could possibly be waiting for. I’m like, “Oh, you have a baby in the car? It’s 100 degrees outside? Well, I have a chimichanga waiting for me at home, and those things don’t just defrost themselves.”
People Who Sit Next to You on the Subway Even When There Are Other Seats Available
This is a big city. It’s also a busy city, with tons of people coming in and out of it every day. In fact, on wednesday afternoons, 20 million people alone use the C train between the hours of 3:37 – 3:59.* This being the case, I totally understand that when I need to use the subway on wednesday, I will probably be standing on one leg with my arms grasping the highest & closest clammy metal bar with 19, 999, 999 people crammed into the closest proximity to my arm pits as possible.
However. It’ll be late in the night, and everyone will either be passed out drunk, tucked into bed, or wandering around Greenwich high as a kite. Me and Mr. Ear-budded-rebellious-teen on the other end of the subway car pull up to Columbus Circle to pick up a few strays coming in from the night, and BOOM — I see you, homeless man. I see you underneath your blanket Parka. I see you eying the subway car. See all those seats? Even not counting the ones with leftover food and/or urine on them, there’s still a good handful of well-spaced out seating arrangements that could be possible here. Take your pick, Parka man. Adhere to the unspoken rule of late-night subway courtesy.
And when he sits down right next to me, it’s time to whip out the Angry Birds and mindlessly try to beat my high scores yet again, refusing eye contact or acknowledgement of any sorts as I inwardly spawn disgruntled feelings towards him breaking the unspoken subway space rule and just general disgust towards anyone still wearing parkas in April.