I KNOW WITHOUT DOUBT that I am becoming a cranky old lady. Maybe I’m displacing from the ungraspable, seemingly unsolvable tragedies of the world to trivial annoyances worthy of minor rants.
NO SILENCE. Music makers are attacking subway cars, where the closeness of the space amplifies the volume and we riders are a captive audience. And then they want us to pay them?
NO BOWLS. My neighborhood branch of Whole Foods purports to encourage environmentally superior reusable containers for meals from the salad bar. Yet time and again, there is only recycled brown cardboard—not too tasty with greens and vegetables—to encase my meal.  
NO RESPECT FOR PEDESTRIANS. When turning cars and trucks cut in on my crossing space, and I have the walk sign, I give them the finger and the evil eye. Sometimes they are so startled that they actually slow down. Sometimes they curse me right back.
NO SEASONS. In the age of climate change, I once wrote in a fashion story, your closet has to be ready for anything. It’s still true. Yet, casing the streets of New York this Indian Summer-esque October, I saw evidence–in the form of boots on 80-degree days–that a great many of us were stuck in the traditional concept of predictable weather. Now that it’s cooler, of course, it’s the diehard sandal-wearers who look silly.