My mother tried to teach me the virtue of patience. She did not succeed. I have many fine qualities; patience is not among them. I walk fast; I type fast; I drive fast (don’t tell on me). I want things done, not half done, not partly finished, not waiting till tomorrow. My husband, a prince of a fellow, can let things wait. “I’ll clean up. Just leave the roasting pan there,” he says. When I walk into the kitchen in the morning, there the pan sits congealing in all its glory. He’ll get to it, eventually. Me? I don’t operate that way. I’m too impatient.
When I was a kid, I hated waiting for the bus. I always carried a book with me and would read to distract myself from the boredom of waiting. I still carry a Kindle with me wherever I go, especially when I know there will be a wait. I do a lot of waiting these days. As kind and caring as the staff of the cancer center are, they can’t help shoo away my uneasiness and occasional fretfulness. That I must do for myself. I get that I’m hard to deal with and hard to live with too. I try. I really do.
My husband just ordered new patio furniture. He doesn’t mind that it will not arrive until May! Guess who does mind? Sorry, ma.