I never thought I’d use the words of Janis Joplin to reference my own life. I first noticed the changes in me on election day at the end of April. The voting card that arrived in our mailbox directed us to the local community centre to cast our ballots for the Canadian federal election. After I had parked the car and my husband and I walked to the front door, I noticed there were no signs or indications that this was where we should vote. Other people (mainly senior boomers like ourselves) were milling around like lost children looking for their parents.

A security guard eventually appeared at the door and advised that the voting station was a couple of blocks away at the local school. Furious that we had been given incorrect information, we stomped off, got back into the car and drove to the suggested voting location. There, we found a high school and an elementary school on opposite sides of the street with ↔Vote ↔ arrows pointing to both schools. What the F#$%! If I have to drive to a third location, I intend to sue Elections Canada for undue duress. At the very least, there should have been a sign at the community centre advising of the correct location.

Taking a chance, we approached the entrance to the elementary school where we met two official “greeters” with name badges. They cheerfully assured us that this could be the correct location. Or, perhaps it might be the other one across the street. Unable to contain my frustration I was inappropriately hostile to both of these nice ladies, which is not a natural behaviour for me. I did the same thing to each of the people I encountered inside the gymnasium who directed us to where we registered, picked up our ballots, and returned our completed ballots. And for good measure in case I missed anyone, I also snarled at the person at the exit who thanked us for coming out to vote.

The next time I noticed that my angry impatience with humanity was getting out of hand, was the day I came home from a stressful and painful trip to the gynecologist following an endometrial biopsy. Any boomer gal who has undergone this procedure knows it is an experience unlike anything else. After the mean old nurse refused to give me an epidural (which I jokingly asked for), we agreed on the administration of gas which significantly alleviated the pain.

After leaving the doctor’s office, I spent an irritating hour at my local Costco getting bumped and sideswiped multiple times while trying to pick up what I needed on my list. When I finally got through the lineup at the checkout, my debit card wouldn’t work because I was so stressed and wiped out I kept pressing the wrong PIN number. I think I was still slightly gassed from the doctor’s office. It was a miracle I had enough cash to get myself out of there, but not before snarfing down a Costco chocolate sundae to try and calm my shattered nerves.

When I got home, not only did my poor unsuspecting husband fail to ask me how I made out at the doctor (large doses of sympathy would have been appreciated here) but he had the nerve to immediately hit me with the news that his TV had died in my absence and could I please fix it right away. After I rebooted the TV and threw the remote at him, I headed upstairs to lie down and contemplate my increasingly bizarre acts of impatience.

OK. I’ll admit I had a bad day but incidents like these seem to be on the increase. It doesn’t take much to piss me off these days. Technology failure is my biggest trigger with the most destructive results, but if the grocery store doesn’t have my favourite Kawartha Dairy Pralines n’ Cream ice cream, then I cannot be held responsible for what I might do. I’ve turned into the consummate cranky old lady typically represented by Maxine or Auntie Acid in the comics.

On my way home, I noticed that somehow my car radio always defaults to 680 am instead of CBC, Sirius 167, Canada Talks or whatever the last station was that I listened to. I park the car, stab at the control screen until my index finger is sore and swear I’m going to cancel my Sirius subscription. Resending the signal failed to get the desired result, and I hesitate to call Sirius again in case I make threats to the poor service representative that I might regret.

The other day, when my faithful old hairdresser failed to deliver just the right level of highlights and favourite funky cut when I was there, I considered trashing her on Yelp. But I won’t. Because I recognize I have a problem. It comes with age as we pass our carefree sixties and seventies, moving into our eighties with its associated health issues.

Finally, this week I was informed by our vet that my sweet little nearly-fourteen-year-old Yorkie has several age-related health issues, including dementia (yes, dogs get it too). That’s a bridge too far. She’s my laptop security blanket, my blood-pressure medication, and my lifeline to peace and sanity. Pet owners understand the joy they bring to our lives. I will deal with that situation in the best way possible but her issues complicate my grip on being a kind and understanding human being.

I’ve become the cranky old lady I never wanted to be and it has to stop. I intend to tackle the problem and get my attitude back on track. I realize life is cyclical and this is just a bad patch after a long period of relative calm. It might help if you would pass the ice cream, please! Quickly! And, going forward, I promise to try harder to be nice. I know my heart will put its pieces back together, but I wonder—how do you cope when you find you’re not coping?