Tough as a Cossack
The return ferry journey from Cherbourg to Dublin was calm and soothing. The boat’s gentle swaying lulled us into a sound sleep, the kind that comes from having no troubling memories to haunt you.
The following day, we bought some snacks for the drive home and struggled to decipher the tiny print on the packaging. Despite wearing our glasses, holding the packet up to the light, stretching our arms out, or bringing it close to our noses, the font was so minuscule it seemed like the Lord’s Prayer etched on a grain of rice. We simply couldn’t make out the words.
And so begins our list of grievances. Today, we address the everyday annoyances and frustrations that plague us—our endless stream of complaints, nitpicks, and grumbles.
This isn’t a targeted criticism of any one snack manufacturer. It’s a widespread phenomenon. For some mysterious reason, font sizes keep shrinking, turning reading into an eye-straining ordeal.
But it doesn’t end there. Stairs appear to grow steeper with every step. Buttonholes shrink. Packaging and childproof lids seem designed by sadists. How many people have starved attempting to open vacuum-sealed, ready-to-eat meals?
People talk faster now—and drive even quicker. Movie makers seem obsessed with speeding up scenes. Sometimes the storylines move so rapidly that by the finale, we find ourselves wondering, did we miss the second act?
Even when speech slows, voices are often hushed, as if the speaker doesn’t want to be heard. On television, murmurs abound, forcing us to turn up the volume or rely on subtitles just to follow along.
With close friends and family alike, clear and loud conversation has been replaced by quiet muttering.
‘Speak up,’ we urge.
Yet, in restaurants stripped of soft furnishings, the noise level is unbearable. Amidst the clamor, deciphering any conversation becomes nearly impossible. And the background music? It’s nothing but relentless boom-boom beats that further drown out meaningful interactions.
‘May we have a menu,’ we request.
‘It’s on the QR code,’ the young server with the nose ring replies.
‘Huh?’
When the waiter returns wielding a vintage, grease-stained paper menu seemingly rescued from the Eisenhower administration, its worn condition suggests it might as well be a directory to the local red-light district.
‘It’s out of date,’ they confess. ‘So our offerings and prices may differ.’
‘Thanks,’ we respond.
The food, sadly, often lacks flavor or aroma—the food industry seems to be turning against our taste buds too.
Our frustrations don’t stop there. Where screw-on caps on jam or water jars once came off with ease, they now feel tightened as if preserved for future archaeologists to study. We might need pliers just to get them open.
Thankfully, traditional wine corks still function, and a sturdy corkscrew can conquer even Fort Knox. But winemakers seem to be joining the trend, replacing corks with screw caps.
“They should be called ‘screw-you’ caps,” jokes a cynical neighbor.
The same applies to simple packaging like chip bags. It might say ‘Tear here,’ but the reinforced nylon only makes it harder. Recently, on a short flight, we wrestled fruitlessly with a stubborn pretzel bag. With no tools at hand, we resorted to tearing it with our teeth.
But no; that bag was as tough as a Cossack. Just as our patience wore thin, a stewardess under 60 appeared, effortlessly opening the cursed package and handing it back with a smile.
Another complaint: friends are becoming less dependable.
“I wrote to John two weeks ago. No response,” you grumble to your spouse.
“Don’t you remember?” replies the family archivist. “He passed away last year.”
We face similar frustrations with new technology. At the airport, you’re expected to check in, tag your bags, and board all through machines.
These devices, programmed to be infuriating, often give confusing commands. ‘Turn your passport in the other direction,’ one might say. What other way is there? ‘Enter your six-digit code,’ it orders. Which code?
Dealing with ‘automated customer service’ can be even worse.
‘Press one if you are being attacked by a grizzly bear.’
‘Press two to refinance your mortgage.’
‘Press three to answer: 1 + 2 = ?’
‘Press four if you’re leaving town and can’t turn off the toaster.’
‘Press 124 if you have an uncle in the Himalayas currently homeless.’
You soon realize none of these options match your problem—you only want to unblock your credit card—so you select 55 for a Human.
After an agonizing 15-minute wait, a voice with a nearly unintelligible South Asian accent answers…
“Hello, my name is Samira, how can I help you?”
Your heart lifts. Finally, a real person ready to cut through endless menus and solve your issue.
You explain your problem.
“First, we have to confirm your identity. What color were your first-grade teacher’s eyes?” she asks.
“What…?”
“What is your favorite way to prepare tofu?”
You hand the phone to your wife.
Meanwhile, on life’s highway, an older man grips the wheel with both hands, staring into the oncoming glare, cursing the fools heading the wrong way.
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