Ironic Aging

Age brings intolerant complacence.
I have examples.
The other day my hair dryer died. Just stopped. Without missing a beat, with my hair damp on the right, dripping on the left, I simply unplugged the beast and with a quick lean to the left, dropped the useless junk into the bathroom trash can.
Turned out to be a hat day.
Later, my electric toothbrush crapped out.
As did a space heater.
Three losses in one morning.
Technology mounted up and over the edge of the trashcan before I stopped to consider that perhaps it wasn’t the appliances so much as a blown fuse.
Five minutes later I retrieved misjudged electrically-fine paraphernalia from the bowels of waste and removed my ballcap.
With the accoutrements rehoused, only then did I consider my blasé attitude.
Shouldn’t I have been angry? frustrated? put out? Everything crapped out, I thought, yet it bothered me not at all.
Because I didn’t care? Because I didn’t want to worry about frizzy hair ever again, because I have a huge hat collection?
Maybe because Amazon delivers replacements nearly as quickly as a trip to the city and its claustrophobic forays up and down retail aisles.
Nah. It’s because I’m aging.
And I don’t have time to care about small stuff.
Another example: the next day, I determined I was sick to death of oozing toothpaste, it’s weirdly squeezed housing quietly exuding gelatinous white paste from a seemingly closed, half crusted-over opening. And the backup tube, the non-leaky one, well, it had been clamped in the middle so many times it resembled an ocean floor sea creature, weirdly shaped, deformed, and innocuous.
And I was sick of it.
So both tubes went straight into the space recently evacuated by misunderstood electronic items.
Again, because I’m aging, it’s out with the old.
No anger, no bitterness, just get rid of the stuff that bugs. Complacently.
Because I’m intolerant.