This is a brief plea for mercy for the woman who asked to speak to the manager.
We’ve all heard of Karen by now. Vilified worldwide for being a middle-aged, demanding, brash, opinionated killjoy. An expert in escalation. The backbone of Neighbourhood Watch.
Karen’s heyday was the late 2010s, but if you thought being labelled a Karen is done and dusted, it’s not. Kids have latched onto the insult now. My 9-year-old was recently told by her friend that she had seen a Karen “in real life”. I then had to explain to my daughter what a Karen is, all without sounding like a Karen.
Being designated a Karen is not something any sane woman wants, even those named Karen. But what if Karen has been misunderstood? What if she’s simply a perimenopausal woman doing her best to deal with the shit cougar-puberty hand she’s been dealt? What if Karen’s got her own fucking problems?
Karen probably hasn’t slept more than three consecutive hours a night for the past two years (and the handful of times she did, she likely woke up drenched in a pool of her own sweat). She’s probably piled on 10kg, despite exercising regularly and not changing one single thing in her diet. She probably despairs she’s going bald as she brushes out half her head of hair every single morning. She probably has a panic attack while making an online supermarket order. And she probably feels like she’s been given a lobotomy most days as she struggles to recall the most basic information, battles to stay awake in meetings, and does her utmost to appear relevant to her gen Z colleagues and not like the washed up has-been she feels she is. There are approximately 34 known symptoms of perimenopause. Even if Karen is only suffering through a couple of them this would render any normally sane woman a temporary Queen Mary.
There’s no question that Karen expects a certain level of behaviour from people: courtesy, decent service, a reasonable noise level in public spaces. But is that so outrageous? Yes, her delivery could do with some refining, but maybe if everyone could just up their standards a bit then she wouldn’t have to tear them a new one. When she has a crack at someone for jumping the queue at Max, isn’t she just being brave enough to voice what the other customers are thinking but too scared to say? It’s not Karen’s fault she doesn’t have a filter – she lost it long ago, along with her libido.
What if Karen is just trying her best to be a functioning member of society while she balances precariously on the knife edge of sanity? What if she only demands to speak to the manager because the manager could actually do with some constructive feedback about just how ridiculously fucking long it has taken to serve her chicken Caesar salad? What if she only calls noise control on her neighbours at 9pm because she’s mindful of the whole cul-de-sac being disturbed?
People really should consider themselves fortunate if they only get a serve from Karen. After all, this is a woman who likely – thanks to her hormonal fluctuations – regularly fantasises about bludgeoning her loved ones to death with a pickaxe. So, rather than pigeonholing Karen as a whinging middle-aged wāhine, perhaps you could spare a thought for the hormonal tornado she’s cartwheeling around in the next time she crosses your path. Then hot step yourself the hell out of her way.
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