>I have no issues admitting that I am an old lady, trapped in the body of a 30 year old. My parents would tell you that I have always been kind of an old lady. I remember as a child asking my Dad how I should go about getting insurance. He assured me that eight year olds don’t have to worry about that, and when the time came, I would find an insurance agent without a problem.
Last week Cory and I were driving to work along the Coralville strip and I was telling him a story of some kind when all of the sudden my ears were assaulted by the awful bumping bass in the car next to us. I could feel the little hairs in my ears shaking, and I could no longer concentrate or remember what I was talking about. I believe I did utter the words, “Isn’t there some kind of law about how loud you can have your music in the car?!?! I can’t hear myself think right now! That guy is going to ruin his hearing!”
Yes, I am old. But maybe the most tell tale sign of my advanced maturity is my complete loathing of the popular acronym that the kids are throwing around these days, FML. I see it on Facebook all the time, from generally younger friend, but sometimes high school classmates who obviously have never had their lives touched by any kind of real tragedy, otherwise they would know how insensitive and obtuse it is to declare “F–K My Life” over something as trivial as a missed opportunity to go out for a beer, or a pair of pants that are suddenly too tight.
I am certainly familiar with melancholy, and self pity is not something that is below me, but I can’t ever see the humor in FML. I hate it. If no one in your household is suffering from a terminal illness, please give it a second thought before you callously dismiss the blessings in your life to complain about your less than perfect day by damning your whole life. It isn’t funny.
I think I am done now.