Getting older. It’s inevitable. Each year I notice some new change in my behavior or attitude that I can attribute to nothing other than getting older.

Housing prices in Massachusetts being what they are, I find myself living in a pleasant condo unit. It’s a nice place. The entire building was gut-renovated prior to my moving in, and it still has that new building feeling. The building, originally a large Victorian, has now been converted into 9 condo units. When I originally moved in, I loved the idea of having so many close neighbors. If anything, it was considerably more private than the arrangements I had during college and much of medical school. Even during the several years prior to moving in, I occupied a unit in a large apartment complex.

And it was fine. At least for the first couple years. But now the movie noises that seep through the floor from the unit upstairs are getting old. Really old. I would say “like, John McCain old” but let’s keep politics out of this. Anyway, if it’s not the booming from what sounds like war movies upstairs, it’s the neighbor’s smoke alarm going off for the 15th time this month. Or the occasional party down the hall. I’m sure the feelings are mutual, too. The neighbors probably get tired of hearing me wail “Stop and Staaaare” while fumbling with guitar chords but I they can no more blame me for that than I can blame them. There’s a need for space that comes with age. And I need it. Soon.

It’s enough to drive me to the suburbs.

I remember seeing a guy on TV a couple years back who was complaining about noise from car stereos. He was a middle-aged, moderately overweight fellow and seemed to take himself too seriously. He was part of an organization called Noise Free America and provided my wife and I with a several good laughs.

But I’m not laughing now, no sireee. I’m filling out the membership form.