I’m either getting older, or the stereo systems in restaurants around Indianapolis have broken volume dials.

I’m guessing it’s NOT the stereos.

For the second time in a week, my family and I have sat down at a table, only to have the music on the overhead speaker drown out our conversation. Even my 7-year-old said tonight, “What is the DEAL?” I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with hearing Britney Spears baby-talk her way through “Oops, I Did it Again,” but I don’t need to feel the vibration of every inaudible moan ringing in my ear.

Sadly, I politely asked our waiter if he could turn it down, “just a hair.”

A hair would not have been enough. A hair would have only reduced the noise to bar-level, like the days when I would go with a friend, then stand there and pretend to read lips because I couldn’t hear a thing she was saying. I figured if I could get him to turn the volume down even a nanometer, it would be better than having to write down my order to ensure it would come back accurate. I figured I would take what I could get.

To my surprise, our waiter said, “I sure will. I was thinking it was a little loud myself.” And that’s from the mouth of a kid who didn’t even look twenty. For a brief moment, I didn’t feel so old.

Moment over.