A few days ago on the Post there was an article of such abysmal and embarrassing whininess that it left the Meowhold speechless. If you would like to peruse said article, you may click here: Whiny Post Article.
(apologize– subscription needed)
I sometimes really hate people my age.
And specifically, I sometimes hate my douchebag, selfish asshole neighbors, who are convinced that everyone else in a five-mile radius wants to hear their drunken arrivals at night (mercifully this does not happen often).
The neighbors are bad enough, carrying on with their blissful steel-liver antics much like the grasshopper in the Aesop fable –the one who doesn’t realize that winter is coming and that you actually need to store food if you don’t want to die and makes fun of the ants for working all through the summer.
Those ants should have had a feast with that grasshopper if you ask me.
It’s already enough to deal with the drunken-with-power single people in this town, preening and parading themselves around town thinking that they own it and that the restaurant patrons are riveted by their phone conversations and charmed when they decide to block the left side of the escalator and thoroughly scintillated by the way they flick their cigarette butts all around or take the last available seat on the metro. Or the way they leave the taxi cab waiting for them with the engine running for twenty minutes on a cold, cold day while they turn the house inside out looking for their sunglasses. You expect it and to a certain degree revel in it (this blog does not write itself all the time, you know).
I revel in seeing the horrendous outfits my neighbors pick, trying to squeeze a fast-approaching-cougardom-ass into a barely-kitten pair of jeans or seeing their sallow complexions struggling to hide beneath a full face of make-up as if enough La Prairie on their faces would somehow erase the vodka binges.
This is all expected behavior from people who are leaving their twenties and approaching their thirties (or are very squarely both in their thirties and in the throes of denial) and who have not given a thought to
moving past night after night of partying like it’s 1999 –when my generational cohort was around 23 and could hold their liquor or pretend very well (record drinking for yours truly: four gin-and-tonics and two beers in about a four hour period without puking sometime in the summer of that year).
(Aside: I wonder if anyone out there in the Interweb is either going to say "That’s it? What a fucking pussy," or "That’s SO MUCH ALCOHOL! How irresponsible.")
(Second Aside: Alcohol level for that amount was between .174 and .161)
Now, I realize that not everyone’s goal is to have kids.
Some of us have triumphed over the biological imperative and focus on other aspects of life such as travel, education, and the good life, and that is totally fine. But surely most of us also pursue the overcoming of selfish and aggressive assholishness, and whining about petty crap as we mature?
Which is why I hate people my age sometimes: a few of us get pregnant and start raising kids and suddenly we want to be given a medal because we can’t get properly shitfaced during a Sunday brunch or because we have to make amends to our sleep schedule (sleep?).
And although most people who are less educated (as per the article) are having kids in their early twenties, people of my age group –and I guess, and this is what cuts to the quick here because it’s really my socioeconomic and educational cohort– are rubbing in the face of whomever will listen that they are sooooooooooooooooooooooooo young!
Seriously! SO YOUNG! OMG how can babies be having babies… at twenty-seven!?
And they make it all sound so damn difficult, even when they have help (they can afford help of course! HELP!).
Talk at home might revolve around the frequency of eating solids and
replenishing baby clothes, but the couple said parenthood is giving
them a new level of ambition that is sophisticated and rejuvenating.
"When you arrange an environment and provide guidance and see that it
actually happens, all the things you’re working on, it’s this feeling
of joint accomplishment between me and Liz," Libresco said. "That’s
But sometimes that bliss gets upended on a moment’s notice. "Our
nanny quit yesterday," Libresco said one day this month. "We haven’t
spoken with her. She just left a note on the door."
Maybe the nanny couldn’t take her bosses’ self-important whining either.
(Original post title: "Hope They Die Before I Get Old" was too dark and filled with bad karma for publication)