Life is full of micro-irritations, micro-annoyances, micro-provocations. But, at this point, when we really need karma on our side, it would be madness to wish death and damnation on everyone who…. didn’t give way at the junction. Or whacked us with their backpack on the tube. We are grown-ups. And so, we respond appropriately with measure and elegance. As a sign of our maturity. Here are some Midult micro-curses.
May you endure a lifetime of over-attentive waiters
Hovering, hovering. Ruining every joke, every proposition, every emotional breakthrough. Buggering up the bonding. Disrupting the argument. By asking – endlessly, repeatedly, interminably – if everything is alright? IT WAS…
May your eyes be forever half-closed and insane looking in photographs
All that time you spent practising the perfect pose and that head tilted, enigmatic expression? Wasted. Ha.
May you regularly sit on the sofa, blanket on knees, wine in hand, dinner on lap – everything balanced perfectly for once – and realise that the remote control is across the room
May you look around for someone to help. But no one comes.
May your life be peppered with voicemails
You will never get to your phone in time. So instead you are forced to listen to endless meandering messages – always with fear in your heart. ‘Why did they leave a voicemail? Are they cross with me? Is somebody dead?’
May you constantly pick karaoke songs with incredibly long musical interludes
Then what will you do? Stand there swaying and feeling like a tool, that’s what.
May your knicker labels always be itchy…
New pants. Nice ones. But with a maddening label that tickles and scratches and rubs you raw around the small of your back. So you cut it out. Which only makes it WORSE.
May your socks forever slip down inside your shoes
So that, even though you look OK, you do not feel completely OK.
May people consistently get your name wrong in emails
Even if it’s Tom. May you be called Thom. Mary, Marie. Sasha, Sacha. Emilie, Emily. Annabel, Amanda. AMANDA? And it starts to feel as though you don’t exist.
May you often hear a high-pitched noise
And when you ask, ‘Can anyone hear that high-pitched noise?’ No one says yes.