I have sympathy for so-called Karens because with each passing day I realise I’m turning into one.

I haven’t sent a half-eaten meal back to the kitchen, complained that my decaf soy latte with sweetener tastes awful or asked to speak to the manager – if you don’t count last week when I tried to make sense of my stroke-inducing gas bill via a Philippines-based call centre.

But I’ve chided an older man on the Quiet Carriage of the train as he worked his way through the minutiae of his life on speakerphone.

I don’t want to be a Karen, but sometimes you just need to stand up for yourself. Credit: Getty Images

I’ve reported dumped trolleys, delayed putting my bin out so neighbours don’t corrupt my carefully sorted recycling (even though in my heart I doubt the contents are recycled) and I’ve half-jokingly admonished one of my kid’s able-bodied friends for parking in the disabled spot next door.

I’ve resisted telling the school kids on my train to get their wet, muddy shoes off seats and been so annoyed with e-bikes parked across the footpath I’ve fantasised about pushing them over, one by one, like dominoes.

So who even am I? An uptight, intolerant mid-lifer who needs to smell the roses and mind her own business or a worldly-wise empath who fights injustice when she sees it?

I’ve entered the twilight zone in which any effort to advocate for myself or others, follow rules, or seek clarification is weaponised as Karen-like behaviour.

It’s OK........

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