I think I’m getting old.
It could be argued that turning 46 years old might've been my first clue that I wasn't knee-high to a grasshopper anymore, but I always thought that when I was in my mid-40s, I'd feel adult and mature and as that feeling has yet to settle in, I’m pretty sure chronological age has nothing to do with my current issue.
It all started when I tuned into the new season of Grey's Anatomy. Although seasons one and two were clearly superior to what came after (talk about jumping the ferryboat), it's been good, undemanding entertainment, occasionally thought-provoking, occasionally funny, occasionally heartwarming. And then I sat down (metaphorically, as I tend to be sitting down most of the time) to watch the new season and… is it just me or did it get really silly and irrelevant? Were they always this self-absorbed, vacant and obsessed with getting laid? This young? Does no one at Seattle Grace focus on their career? Sure, I have my moments of "it's all about me", but hijacking the spotlight to the point where you're telling a terminal patient about your boyfriend problems really seems to be stretching the boundaries of believable, acceptable and cute.
I've also been watching Private Practice, the spinoff from Grey's Anatomy. Not quite as sprightly as the mothership, it seems to be directed to an audience about 10 years older then GA, women in their 30s and perhaps maybe early 40s and I love enough of the actors on the show (especially Amy Brenneman) that I gave it a chance. Until last week, when – and I’ll make this so short as to be nearly incomprehensible to waste minimum amounts of much time on it - when Addison is on a lunch date with the SWAT guy and he explains how the reason he hasn't called said he's had a horrible week in which he watched two people died. And
And that’s when I realized that in the eyes of
Does nobody in
Effing whippersnappers should get off my lawn...