Crotchety Old Me

When does one transition from partying until the break of dawn to being the person who calls the cops on the people who are? I ask because I never felt my life make that transition. I have never seen myself as the latter. I don't have little ones. I'm proud of my boisterous social life. Nonetheless, I think I might be becoming THAT neighbor. You know - the party pooper of the block, who insists upon ruining everyone else's fun. Lately, I've been having visions of myself as a hunched-over grey-haired granny, shaking her wrinkled fists at all of the young whipper-snappers and their tomfoolery. No joke. This is how I've started seeing myself.

It all started with the new neighbors. We're a neighborhood of renters, so welcoming newbies is a frequent occasion, but these particular tenants appear a little younger than most on our block (21 at best), and are definitely louder. I've over-looked most of their obnoxiously loud parties because they end at a reasonable time. But when my bedroom walls started reverberating with technotronic beats at 3:30am last weekend, I was over it. I threw on some clothes, marched myself on over to their place, pounded on their door, and told them to shut the tunes down. Like I said - I was THAT neighbor.

The funny thing is, as I was standing in front of these tanned, toned, and shirtless thieves of slumber, I experienced an epiphany. In my younger days, these would have been the boys I would have swooned over. They would have instilled butterflies in my stomach, and I would have eagerly hung out with them. And I would have never dared dream of confronting them.  I wouldn't have had the cojones. But now, their boyish charm did nothing. Their impish smiles didn't stand a chance against my stone cold gaze. I stood in front of them, feeling nothing but exhaustion and annoyance. That was my "aha!" moment; the moment I knew I am getting OLD.

I guess it would be one thing if this had been a singular occasion. But, of course, it wasn't. A couple of nights ago, our neighbors on the other side of the house (who are all responsible, employed professionals) decided to throw a random, midweek, tub-thumping bash. Again, I endured the wall-reverberating, sleep-thwarting, oomcha-oomcha-oomcha-ing until 3:30am. (Apparently, that's my WITCHY hour.) I could have done the neighborly thing. I could have walked over and politely asked them to turn it down. But, after hours of tossing, turning, and mentally cursing them, I didn't have an ounce of polite left in me. So, I called the cops. (I know, I know. I really am THAT neighbor.)

It's not that I'm opposed to the occasional late-night soirée. (Heaven knows I still partake in my share.) It's just that I oppose to anyone blatantly disregarding their neighbors' right to peaceful sleep. Go ahead and have fun; just don't keep me awake by doing so.

So, while I sit around and struggle with my increasing fuddy-duddyness, I hope my neighbors aren't secretly plotting my demise behind my back. Just please, let a girl sleep!