Because, my friend, those were happy years, and few subjects make for more tedious reading than happiness.”

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

So… we’ve got that going for us. Who could say that this has been a happy year ?

And to top it all off, I just read an article in the The Globe and Mail arguing that rants are not good.

Uh-oh.

And to continue in the spirit of these times, this particular journalist, damned if I can remember his name, actually pointed his finger. Apparently it’s all Freud’s fault. Psychoanalysis and baring and then purging your soul, is self-defeating. And he even argued as to how self-damaging the primal scream is (but for the life of me I have never once come across anyone over three years of age standing there and screaming their lungs out.) Best to keep it all bottled up . And then what… get up on a rooftop with the firearm of your choice ?

Okay, okay. I realize that even I’m venturing a little too far into the dark end of the Twilight Zone here. And I don’t vent on Twitter but I guess for all those who do it’s a lot cheaper than paying someone $250 an hour. (That last figure was just made up. Like most of the things I say, I don’t really have a clue.)

But most of my waking hours are spent in a quandary as to when to open my mouth and when just to stand there with an idiotic smile on my face. Even my most pleasurable outlets can present this dilemma. My Friday afternoon hockey at the Sandy Hill Arena should be a pleasure, I’m told. But sometimes even there fun and games can become a stressor.

When we can’t ice ten guys a side to make the teams even we often bring in ‘spares.’ And sometimes these spares have to be broken in as to how one conducts oneself properly in life.

This time it was one of the regulars’ sons who lit my fuse. And even though he is barely twenty he seemed to have forgotten that day in kindergarten when they teach you to share and play nicely with others. Ten players aside means two lines for each team. This young guy was playing centre, my alter-ego on my team’s other line. Except that probably no coach in minor hockey had told him to change up with his linemates. Maybe that would have hurt his feelings. But out here in the real beer league world there was no referee in the game and no whistles to force a change.

Patience has never been my trump card and my inner equilibrium began to tilt to overload as he continued to make his way up and down the ice with no thought whatsoever for the aging fuming wannabe with one skate on the bench and my butt on the boards ready to spring into the action. It didn’t matter that I had already played two hours that morning in another game and that orthopedic surgeons have told me many times that both my knees need replacements. Fair is fair and this twenty year old Gen Zer should have obviously spent some time in the Special class, if such things still exist. “Hey Finnegan,” I yelled. I knew his name was Finley but I wanted to piss him off. “Time’s up. Time to get off. Let’s go.” I then rattled the bar of the bench door that could be heard all over the arena. Any counsellor would have a field day with me.

But it worked. Later shifts were shorter and (almost) even.

Sorry for the rant. Despite what the Globe and Mail told me I do feel better now.

Next week I’ll try to come up with something more like Christmas cheer.