There is this ongoing joke about me, that a few close friends and my sister love to perpetuate. The joke is that I'm an elderly woman a little before my time. I like cardigans and soft foods. My favorite nights out often end by 10pm, and often involve Scrabble or museums.
(Sidenote: why aren't swimming pools open later?)
Well, I'm about to play right into their little ploy in sharing what really bugs me. I don't like yelling. I don't like being in situations that lend themselves to yelling. There is an angry loss of control when a parent yells at a child, or when a wife yells at a husband in the street, or when a stranger in an airport yells at a customer service representative. Sometimes it's not the yeller, but rather the yellee that gets under my skin. Either way, if there is a yell, there is something unnecessarily awry. Someone is tired. Or frustrated. Or desperate and hopeless. Yelling really bugs me.
(Hollering and whooping—and even wailing—are excellent alternatives).