In my father’s old age, he became fixated on the idea that the world would be a better place if everyone drove under 55 mph. He had read someplace that, above that speed, cars weren’t as efficient and wasted gas. Whenever he started railing against fast driving, my siblings and I rolled our eyes: There goes dad again.

He was full of opinions about what was wrong with the world and how to fix it, often embarrassing his children and wife. He made a habit of telling restaurant owners the music was too loud, which made his children cringe. Funnily enough, I now find myself complaining  about the same thing, as friends and I try to talk over the cacophony. 

I guess it’s inevitable that most of us turn into our parents as we get older, very certain about what’s wrong with the world and how to fix it. I realized I’m becoming one of those opinionated old people who writes letters to the editor; goes up to cars sitting in parking lots with their engines running and lectures the driver about befouling the air; reminds people that dogs aren’t allowed on this trail; and lectures total strangers on why they should not pick flowers in a public park.

Perhaps one of the advantages of old age is that we’re not threatening; the two women picking the flowers weren’t likely to slug me or even yell at me; more likely, they went back to their cars and laughed about the crazy old lady sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.