Perhaps its because I’m a guy, or perhaps it’s a result of growing up with my particular family, or going to my particular schools, or whatever, but since I was a kid I’ve always been taught not to complain about little things. You know what I mean? Those little things that annoy you and make you fighting mad, but in the grand scheme of things they aren’t that important and don’t seem worth mentioning.
But the thing that no one covers is what happens when you get eighty little things happening in the one day. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it’s bloody awful when you have days like that.
The problem is, there’s still the ingrained thought in my head that I shouldn’t complain about the little things. Even when there’s a tonne of them. Last Saturday I wanted to go to the local library and pick up some books I’d been after. First, the keys went missing for an hour. Then the car needed petrol. Then I spend five minutes on the side of the highway when the police were pulling everyone – everyone – over for a breathalyser test. Then there was the mind-bogglingly small carpark with its mind-bogglingly small parking spaces. Then the book I was after wasn’t available after all. I wasn’t happy.
When is it enough? How many little things need to happen before I get to scream and shout and complain? At some point, can’t we lump all the little things in together and call them a big thing?
Aaaaaand end rant. Thankyou. It’s been cathardic. Like beating up a cheap hooker punching bag. *whistles innocently*
(What d’you think? Too much?)