The Crusty Old Fart

I really do hate that I am becoming a crusty old fart.  Mentally, I still consider myself to be pretty darned young, and most people who know me will definitely toss the word "immature" around in the same sentence as my name.

So it definitely bothers me when I wind up playing the role of the Crusty Old Fart (COF for short).  I had plenty of opportunities to be the COF this past weekend.  Little Smoot had a karate tournament in State College, PA, and since it began early on Saturday morning, we headed up that way on Friday night and stayed at a hotel.

I should also mention that the drive took nearly five hours thanks to blinding snow we experienced for most of the trip, and the fact that a Prius does about as well at navigating through snow as an upside-down kayak would.  So I was already in a less-than-100%-pleasant mood.

Knowing we had to be up early in the morning, Little Smoot and I went to sleep just after 10 p.m., which would give us a good night of rest.  That seemed like an awesome theory until 12:41 a.m., when about 300 girls (judging from the noise) showed up next door for Party Time.

It sounded like they were having a cheerleading festival over there, and extra points were being awarded to those who could be the loudest.  After a few long moments, I got up, got dressed -- with some articles of clothes actually on backwards due to anger and being half asleep.  I grabbed my COF hat, and stomped over to their door and politely asked them to can it.

That kept them quiet for almost a nano second as I hopped back into bed.  And slowly but surely, the giggles turned into laughs, which turned into screaming and who knows what exactly.  I pounded on the wall, at least until my knuckles started to bleed, in the form of a hint, which went largely unnoticed.  So I turned our room's heater on "high" in hopes that the noise of the fan would muffle their sounds.

Of course the question that comes to mind is "Where are the idiot parents who are letting them get away with this?"  My guess would be that the idiot parents are at a different hotel, probably in a neighboring state, to avoid the noise.

A few hours later (notice I didn't say "a few hours of sleep later") it was time to get up for the tournament.  At least I got a little bit of satisfaction out of "accidentally" repeatedly bumping up against the neighboring door as I loaded the car.