Complaining About Complaining

So, this guy in what I’ve recently heard called a “child snatcher” van is heading towards me faster than I think he should be; there are cars parked on both sides of the relatively narrow residential street and now I’ve got to pull over against the ones on the right to let him just slide by me. “Yikes! Asshole,” I think and even consider giving him the finger even though he does sort of give me an “I’m sorry” shrug (or maybe it’s a “You’re sorry” one) but now I’m kinda wound up so when, at the next intersection, a cyclist in spandex zooms by me, almost, but not quite cutting me off, my hackles really begin to rise, until at the upcoming light, which is turning yellow, I have to stop so as to let a lady in an SUV turn left in front of me, grrr!

But then I take a deep breath of sorts and remind myself that none of this really matters and that I’m getting myself all worked up on this lovely summer day over not very much and that nearly all of the things that I tend to complain about, from reckless drivers, to less-than-flattering reports on the effects of marijuana, to lazy students and overactive administrations, are hardly worth complaining about, especially given that (knock wood) none of them bear any resemblance to a car bomb, a bridge collapse, or “nuclear options” either on or off the table.

To say I’ve got nothing to complain about (as I am sometimes wont to do) might be something of an overstatement (don’t—or do—get me started on the Executive Branch of the US Government), but for the most part, I’ve got nothing to complain about.

Now, this probably marks me as a terminal Pollyanna, but that’s nothing to complain about either. I’ll keep looking at the glass as half full, especially, during these hot days of summer, if it’s half full of beer.