I have this teeshirt. I don’t wear it much. Not many of my peer peeps ‘get’ it. Any more than they ‘get’ Irony.
Since I am of the Boomer age, many peers are wrinkly, which may causally relate… Though one would think differently after looking at a picture of a brain, the body part where irony resides, which is decidedly wrinkly inside our pate.
Some peeps seem pre-occupied with bitterness and bashing, amidst the political mash-up we forebear.
Not relishing the irony that they have replaced the sneering judgmentalism of crochety oldsters who complained about US and the U.S. not that long ago…and far away, which is where I wish the naysayers would do: stay away from me. Don’t clutter my confidence in the good of the world and its Maker.
Perhaps the wisdom of an article by Gretchen Reynolds, ‘So Lonely It Hurts’ in the December 13, 2015 ‘New York Times’ magazine eruditely relates: “The lonelier you are, the more your attention is drawn toward negative social information.” Read the entire article, ponder, and get back to me, please. I seek to understand. http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/12/10/so-lonely-it-hurts/
In the meantime, I’ll sit out the cranky discussions in my other, un-ironic shirt, wishing that their whining could evolve as the tee shirt suggests, into “a bit”, then nevermore. (“A bit” was a frequent time marker with our Aussie friends.)
For as long as I can remember my definition of Old is those obsessed with relentless fault-finding and discontent, that things are not like they used to be when…
To the cranky pants oldsters I’d like to say, “You’re right. They are not; they are better. And, you should be, too. Better not bitter, that is.” So STFU!
But they wouldn’t hear above their cranked-up volume, so I say nothing, continuing to slurp wine a bit.
Like the shirt that my husband bought as a birthday gift for me at a New Zealand winery we visited during our Down Under vacation?
It describes me well: “nicely forward” as well as all of the other words.
A wit a bit.
And a bit wrinkly while being a lover of irony. And tee shirts, which don’t need ironing a wit.
omg: we went to Florida, the land of minimal taxes and maximum alligators, to visit longtime friends who retired there.
What a snarling, sad nest they inhabit; one-upping each other’s pains and problems serves as conversation. They shuffle between club chairs, dining chairs, and bed, either buried in iPad worlds or watching a 70 inch TV. Their daily rounds comprise about 50 feet. Their Fit Bits may quit due to lack of demand for work.
Reality must bite so much that they’ve cocooned as much as the teens-thirties who walk about with their head-and-shoulders hunched over smart phones. Sour, dour, uncomfortable, drab, waiting-for-the-grave – which they’ve already dug.
The king and queen of Crankydom. We can never return – might not get past the moat to escape, bitten by mosquitos of surly snarky.
Yeah, they chewed our happiness, spit on our visit, ruined a friendship. Sigh.