I wash dishes at breakneck speed, only rarely breaking them. And I hardly ever cut myself on knives as I swish the sponge over the blade.
When I walk, it’s as if I’m competing for first place. My kids trail behind me like ducklings.
I read fast. I type fast. I drive fast though I haven’t been ticketed for twenty years.
I make snap judgments. I decide quickly–once I have all the facts. I watch television after it’s been recorded so I can fast-forward through the commercials.
I’m not sure why I’ve always been in such a hurry, but even back when I was nine I was proud of the fact that I was the fastest girl runner in the fourth grade. I finished my tests first. I learned my multiplication facts before everyone else in my third grade class.
Traffic lights turn green and my foot is already pressing the gas pedal. Let’s go! I’m a toe-tapping, finger-drumming, heavy sigher. I just can’t quite understand why everyone else is moving so slowly. Come on, I think. Let’s GO!
And then yesterday, as I was rushing from somewhere to somewhere else, I had a fleeting thought. (My thoughts, they flee sometimes, like they’re being chased.)
I thought how aggravating it must be for my kids to have a mom whose default speed is 80 MPH when they are happy to tootle along at 25 MPH. And I thought that maybe it would be a relief to me to just acknowledge that some people are meant to move along at a less frantic pace.
Some people are meant to linger, to loiter, to meander.
Some people want to take the circuitous route for whatever nonsensical reason. (I always figure out the fastest route, don’t you?) It’s not a race.
So I’m going to try to stop judging the slowpokes among us. I’m going to try to stop yelling at those cars that drive like there’s a Department of Motor Vehicles evaluator in the passenger seat. I’m going to try to stop sighing at people who just get in my way with their unhurried, impossibly leisurely dawdling.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to run upstairs to sleep really fast so I can get a million things done tomorrow.