Ten — No, Nine — things I’d rather be complaining about instead of Covid-19 right now.
Right now, every article on Medium, it seems, is somebody’s tack on how to psychologically deal with the current lockdown, the economic anxiety, the horrors of Zoom and BlueJeans calls, and haircuts. So many haircuts. As someone who feels damned lucky to still even have hair, I’d rather be complaining about so many other things, were this simply the relatively carefree hellscape of, say, 2019. Here’s a bunch of things I’d be much more comfortable complaining about, which I hope will give you all hope for the future of complaining.
People Uneducatedly Talking About Anything, Nearby, In A Bar. As you are undoubtedly aware, we know much more about whatever they are talking about than they do, and why won’t they just shut up about it, already? Pick a subject. The History of Europe. Guitars the Beatles Used. Astronomy. Fly-Fishing. Why-oh-why do they choose to know so little about all of it, and why are they sitting by me? I know you miss nearly bursting to complain about it as much as I do. It’s unbelievably heartbreaking that we must now all contend with being the smartest people in the room we’re confined to.
The Smell of Our Coworker’s Terrible Lunch Wafting From The Break Room Microwave. “JFC, Beth, what is that …odor?” Oh. Don’t you miss thinking that? And wishing you could actually tell Beth that reheating whatever nouvelle take on pork skin and kimchi is a war crime, but not, because #racist? I know I miss those days terribly. Nothing would make me think normalcy has returned than nearly puking a little in my mouth over the smell of Beth’s lunch, and the rich delicious stew of internalized complaints I’d enjoy having about it.
Dents Accrued in Valet Parking. Right about now, wouldn’t we all revel in some full-throated complaining about spending a luxuriant few hours over a lamb shank and nice bottle of Central Coast pinot only to have this three-hundred-thirty-two-dollar (not including tax and gratuity) evening ruined by discovering a door ding as your car is returned to you? What a cathartic joy such complaining would be. Also, complaining about a dinner that cost three hundred and thirty-two dollars is always a splendid topper.
Permanently Lost Luggage. Oh, wouldn’t it be lovely to be bitching-a-mightily to your fellow business-travel companions about how the airline lost your fancy Ducati-branded suitcase? And dithering about whether, and how much, you should publicly complain about the loss of your favorite underpants, the ones they don’t make any more and that never chafe, and that you will probably miss long after you’ve completely forgotten about the Ducati suitcase. I mean, those were really good underpants. But no, here they still are, unlost as your also-not-lost luggage gathers dust.
Oh Crap, the Mall. “Why are we here? Will I be able to find my car later? Did that salesperson actually just tell me they have larger sizes in back? I want Sbarro, but look at that line…who even eats at Chick-fil-a anymore?” So many potential complaints, all in one convenient, sleekly-designed Century City wonderland. Complaints that will remain unenjoyed for the foreseeable future.
And the Audience at the Postponed James Bond Movie. I’m sure, like me, you also would love to be — instead of streaming Moonraker again — sitting in a darkened movie house complaining, classically, nay, Seinfeldistically, about the guy who is texting, farting, flashing his Series 5 Apple Watch, smelling of way too much Axe body spray, being born too tall to be sitting in the row in front of you with that annoying product-heightened coif. And about how much better Skyfall was than this, and it’s too bad that this is how Daniel Craig is going to go out, and weren’t we all hoping Phoebe Waller-Bridge could have punched it up more. But this veritable smorgasbord of complaining will just have to wait, dear friends. We mourn.
The 405 (Or Simply Insert your Favorite Clogged Commuter Artery). “Is that guy literally folding his laundry while driving?” I miss it all so. Every snail-paced mile of it of it. I know you do, too.
The Way the Person In Line In Front of You Orders His or Her Coffee. It was always a good way to get the complaint juices flowing each morning. Now I have to pretend my cat likes causing a phantom barista to waste my precious time constructing something with dripped caramel, whipped cream and pumpkin spice. I’m actually pathetic.
Listicles.
The Sweet Release That is Complaining Together. “Can you even believe those people?” we used to say, together — not in a matrix of video-heads-in-boxes that make us look like the worst possible reboot of Hollywood Squares, but sitting over drinks, in the sunshine, or under string lights, or at a beach bar or before the terrible cover-band show we’d dance to, overindulge to, and (in normal times) enjoy complaining about later.
The world as we knew it was once just a wonderful, magical place to complain. It was like it was tailor-made for complaint connoisseurs like myself, full of theoretically terrible people doing demonstrably annoying things, the skin being gotten under and the lips being pursed as the lovely flow of superior indignation flows through the veins like a powerful drug.
And now it’s just a gleaming memory. A Camelot of what we all long to remember what it’s like to complain about.
