Crankiness grows along with wrinkles

Usually the signs of aging are obvious, the graying hair, the sagging skin, the increased use of elastic-waist pants.

But there is one further sign that you are getting old -- your crankiness level.

Despite five children, I didn't think I looked or acted any older than I did in high school. As far as I was concerned, I looked the same as in my college I.D., which I still carry around in my wallet just to prove that I was young once.

But all that changed recently as my level of irritability grew, highlighting the fact that I'm turning into a COL, a Cranky Old Lady. Factor in my constantly multiplying cats and I'm nearly ready for the retirement home.

At first I attributed my increased crankiness to other's increased stupidity. If they were going to act stupid, I was going to be cranky.

For instance, people who don't know how to use turn signals or how to park really get my blood boiling. (After hearing me say it on a early daily basis, my children are going to grow up uttering the phrase, "I'm sorry your turn signal is broken.")

Upon pulling into the parking lot of the bread store, I noticed a car parked somewhere between diagonal and parallel to the building. The car was taking up three parking spots including a handicapped-stall. It was a little excessive.

This meant anyone else either had to park on the side of the building, or as I did, pull in near the rear of his car, partially blocking said car. With another car already parked correctly near the nose of his vehicle, he was now blocked in.

All in the world was fine -- bread was being bought -- until the driver's wife emerged from the store and they tried to pull out. I was leaving the store at this point and heard him calling my van a slew of vulgarities that would make Chris Rock blush.

At this point, I calmly walked to my van. As he skimmed by within inches of my van, still uttering "enlightening" phrases, I couldn't help myself.

"Learn how to park," I called out before slipping into the driver's seat. I waited for a gun to emerge, but he just peeled out, still screaming obscenities -- a waste of breath since all of our windows were up.

If that didn't turn up the cranky-meter, it went up a couple notches later that same day.

Playing sports against younger athletes already makes you feel old, since they can actually get to the ball before it hits the ground.

When they start arguing with you, it pushes you over the edge, whether you are right or wrong. At a recent game, I verified by COL status after a heating dispute which eventually involved the use, once again, of a vulgarity.

I went off on my tangent about not speaking that way and much to my surprise -- everyone was quiet in the gym the entire time. Rather than absorbing my words of wisdom and taking them to heart, I'm sure the group of teenagers was just thinking, "Let the cranky old lady ramble and get it out of her system. Man, I sure home I never get like that."

With children in the car, you must really watch the level of crankiness allowed to show through.

I've been working on that lately, trying to stay positive. (Waiting for the lights on East Sixth and B Streets from the south and sitting through six light changes is really testing me.)

I had the opportunity to demonstrate patience, compassion and swift driving skills, once again in a parking lot (notice a reoccurring theme here?). I spotted a lady getting in her vehicle. Since she was alone, she didn't have three car seats to buckle, six shoestrings to retie and four bags to load into her car -- speeding up her departure considerably.

I assumed she would be pulling out soon and I would have her prime parking spot.

I patiently waited, waving on cars coming from both directions. I kept calm and my tongue in check as small voices from the back seat questioned why were just sitting there.

The time was dragging on and she wasn't moving.

Giving up, I turned down the aisle, resigned to a parking spot far from the front door. Just as my van passed behind the prime spot, reverse lights flashed in the corner of my eye.

She was now leaving. In my heart, I knew she waited on purpose, trying to deny me my rightful short-term ownership of that spot. Plus, someone else -- who didn't have three small children along in the pouring rain, who hadn't waited so patiently -- was going to get my spot. Despite throwing the vehicle into reverse and maneuvering around a wayward shopping cart, I got "my" spot.

I had my parking spot. I could turn the crankiness meter back down, at least until I got to the checkout lane.

-- Ronda Graff figures that by the time she hits 40, everyone should give her a 10-foot buffer to avoid her crankiness.