I'm going to be 75 years old soon, and as hard as I try to be grumpy, I can’t seem to attain this lofty goal.

I have always wanted to be a grumpy old man. Over the years, I thought I’d made a lot of headway—especially in the getting older part. I also found myself getting progressively grumpier as well. Or so I thought.

My father was a grumpy old man by the time he was 60. I wanted to do it even sooner. 

I first tried to be a grumpy old man when I was in my 40s. Sadly, people mistook my crankiness for wittiness. I complained to the grocery store manager that their entrance and exit doors were on the wrong side. 

“I’ll never shop here again,” I told him. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going.” 

That’s pure old man stuff, don’t you think? But all he did was burst out laughing.

I once protested to a couple of Girl Scouts who came to the door selling cookies that their product was too high in fat and eating s’mores would shoot my lipids through the roof. Their mothers called and thanked me, saying this was a good health lesson for the girls. Maybe I shouldn’t have bought three boxes.

I did everything I could to acquire the label “grumpy old man” before my time. Nothing worked. I don’t know how Dad did it with such ease. 

Last year, I complained to some neighbors about their unkempt lawns. I fussed at others who were putting their garbage out at the curb two days early, and I put my foot down about kids making a ruckus outside on Sunday mornings when I was trying to sleep. This had “codger” written all over it. They made me president of the homeowners' association.

I was starting to get worried. When does one officially become a grumpy old man? I combed all my AARP magazines for a few hints, but their publication seemed more interested in readers avoiding this label than celebrating it. I called the editors to grumble about their lack of coverage on this and complained to one in the most crotchety way I knew how. “We welcome your feedback,” she told me. “Please call again.”

The problem here is most people won’t call you a grumpy old man to your face. They just think it. 

“Did you get my birthday e-card, Dick?” my friend David asked me a few days after my 74th birthday.

“Yes, I did. I find email greeting cards rude. They lack the personal touch, and it’s annoying when I have to wait forever while they download.”

“Why, you…”

“Go on, David, say it. Say it, please.”

“Okay, you…you probably have a good point. I should have taken the time to go to the store and buy you a nice Hallmark card, instead.”  

Even my best friends won’t cooperate.

Maybe part of the problem here is I don’t have the right “look.” I’m going to stop dyeing my hair and start hoisting my pants up to my ribcage. That might help.