The hair may be gray, but grumpy the heart is not

Driver’s license renewal time, and fortunately it required a visit to the DMV office.

A pleasant examiner guided me through the mandatory sign test for CDL holders, confirmed that I am blind without corrective lenses, and expressed gratitude for the organ donor designation.

An abrupt halt to entry of vital info in the system which generates the new license. A long look at my mug. “Hmmm. I’ll go with gray.” Gray hair that is. Good-bye brown hair; I’ll miss you.

According to my newly issued driver’s license I am now gray-headed. Officially promoted to golden years status in the eyes of law enforcement and the motoring public.

The new photo reveals a facial expression that says I smell something foul. No smile on the face of this eternal optimist.

The DMV after party was a bust as the ride home became a series of rants.

How dare Starbucks lock the doors for an employee meeting? I hope the new orange cream latte flops.

Why can’t Sheetz repair the two free air stations? I’ll never stop there again.

Two cars in the Silver Creek drive thru. Why can’t these people go inside to order?

Atypical behavior to accompany the hair color transformation.

Reflecting on the last few months there have been other examples. A harsh one-star Google review for Lowes and their return policy.

Hand-written letters excoriating UNC Health over their atrocious billing system.

Celebrating the demise of the Dairy Queen at exit 75 near Old Fort. In 1994 they made my banana milkshake using rotten bananas.

A peaceful cruise on Lake James rendered contentious by my waving hands, death stare, and choice words directed at a self-absorbed boater who breached maritime etiquette.

Passing too closely, this lout sent massive waves to swamp a small disabled vessel under tow. Far from normal behavior for a happy old goat.

Like my zodiac kinfolk, Vladimir Putin, Bruce Springsteen, Mahatma Gandhi, and Ayatollah Khomeini, I am wired to be patient and relentlessly positive.

The Astro Twins tell me I am predisposed to live and let live; to exist in a world of peace and harmony.

Conflict avoiders, we people of the scales, are slow to anger and willing to let small annoyances slide.

Injustice makes our blood boil. We expect common courtesy. Rude, abrasive, or inconsiderate behavior is a dealbreaker. Unjust or unfair situations shatter our peaceful attitude.

Clearly not built for the label, it seems that I am nonetheless sliding into that wasteland known as Grumpy Old Man. Do I really want a middle finger coupled with a dismissive “he’s just a grumpy old man” to define my golden years?

Shall I become Uncle Roby, the original GOM in my life? The summer of 1964. My mom and her brood of five ducklings arrived for a Sunday afternoon visit. As Aunt Mae welcomed us at the front door, Roby exited the back door.

Within minutes the Oldsmobile hood was raised, and our co-host started another lengthy mechanical repair…sans guests.

Two hours later Roby returned to the house. His cherished box of warm Krispy Kreme Original Glazed Doughnuts devoured by children of the corn. For Roby, the final straw. Our hasty and inglorious departure followed soon thereafter.

AARP experts share the truth about old men. We are simply misunderstood. A grumpier outlook does not accompany gray hair.

Indeed, Gray-Hairs tend to be happier than the general population. It’s also possible that we are not more grumpy, just more vocal; more likely to say what is on our mind.

We get to a point where we say, “I don’t need to put up with this anymore.”

Trusted advisor webMD suggests I may be afflicted with Irritable Male Syndrome (IMS), commonly described as a cluster of symptoms including irritability and anger.

Medical experts disagree whether IMS represents a true clinical condition. It is not even an officially recognized psychological diagnosis. Some think it is simply a more palatable way to say “grumpy old man.”

Doesn’t matter. I am adopting it. Finally, my own special malady complete with initialism! Can’t wait to share this with the teenage bus riders when school resumes.

“OMG, OFC, LOL. SMH that you have no more FOMO on ADHD. IMS awaits you in 50 years.”

Not today, Satan. I refuse to be a GOM. The Astro Twins declared me free of the gene, AARP absolved me of responsibility for outbursts, and WebMD assigned an affliction.

There have always been and will always be inconsiderate people who disappoint and institutions which do not meet our expectations. Our response is the only thing we control.

Saint Dale Carnegie, poet Max Ehrmann (Desiderata), and the book of Matthew offer useful guidance to govern that response.

Count your blessings – not your troubles. Be cheerful; strive to be happy. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

‘Nuff said.