Two days until my youth is gone forever

Two days before my thirthieth birthday, I have come to an important realization about human nature and how it will likely shape my future. One's list of pet peeves always gets longer as one ages, never shorter.

About a month ago, I was diagnosed with a stress fracture in the second metatarsal of my right foot (more on that later). This has led directly to the addition of one pet peeve to my list: people who don't give up seats on the bus for someone who obviously needs one. A couple weeks ago, when I was still wearing a clunky walking cast up to my knee, I boarded the bus home from campus. All the side-facing seats were full. One individual was taking up three seats with his various and sundry baggage and oversized ass. I can't fit comfortably in a forward-facing seat normally, as I am 6'1" and seats on city buses are designed, apparently, for dwarves. With the boot, it would have been an impossible fit. I stood on one leg for almost a mile, trying to make eye contact with one of the occupants of the side-facing seats would get the hint. I didn't want to pause my iPod to actually speak to anyone because I prefer my iPod to human interaction. Finally, I reached the limit of my patience and I exclaimed, "Could somebody please give their seat to the gentleman with the BROKEN FOOT?!" Someone did give me their seat, but it wasn't Mr. My-backpack-is-more-important-than-any-human, unfortunately.

Another pet peeve formed this afternoon in ASU's Student Recreation Center. It was only my third time back since breaking my foot and it's much more crowded than I remember. This, in itself, is not a problem if people generally follow basic gym etiquette. However, these common-sense protocols were apparently beyond the grasp of two young men who sat chatting on two pieces of equipment. Neither was actually using the equipment, but rather playing. One jauntily pressed the foot pedal on the seated chest press, rhythmically letting the weights slam back on top of the stack as he released his foot. The other played with the seat adjustment knob on the seated row, unscrewing it completely and fumbling to screw it back one, then repeating the exercise anew. I watched the pair scornfully as I earnestly completed my sets on each machine in the row and moved closer and closer. Thankfully, they decided to move on just before I was finished with the seated shoulder press. I'm glad I didn't have to yell at them. Despite my reputation for misanthropy, I don't really enjoy yelling at people. It's just necessary sometimes.

This is the process by which deep, brooding young men turn into cranky old men. I just didn't think it would happen to me so quickly.