Patience escapes me like fireflies at dusk. It appears to be within my grasp, but remains forever out of reach. Sometimes I think I don’t try hard enough to master this art of waiting.
But at 52, I now believe that perhaps patience is as outdated as typewriters, white gloves, and those spiffy little teatime pillbox hats. I also think I just need to get over it. I never had it, never will get it, and at this point in my life, don’t want it.
My current struggle with this character defect stems from the launching of my book. I dutifully sent some nifty little promo packages to 40 or so people who I believed might be receptive. I figured all I need is one big break. (And yes, I sent one to Oprah and her friend Gayle. Come on, don’t be such a dream hata.)
So after stimulating the economy by shelling out a few hundred bucks to send my packages from sea to shining sea, I now must wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. OK, so it’s only been one week, but like I said, patience escapes me. I just don’t do wait well.
My friends tell me to calm down and be patient, but that just sends me to the emergency chocolate drawer. At the rate I’m going, I’ll need lap band surgery by the end of next week.
So now instead of trying to work on being patient, I’ve decided it’s OK to harrumph at everything that requires patience – waiting in line, waiting on the phone, waiting to catch a plane, waiting in any office anywhere at any time. Harrumph, harrumph, harrumph.
You see “Searching for Patience” will not find its way onto my bucket list. No siree, Missy. And who would want a bucket list like that anyway? That would be like putting “Searching for Ninnyhammers” on your list of things to do before you die. So that little epiphany got me to thinking about other things that belong on my Bucket-less List. So here we go…
Richie’s Top 5 Bucket-Less List
No. 5: Being athletic. I will never, ever like to run. Trainers say it’s all about learning to run correctly. I say I never liked to run even when I was young, so why start now? And at 52 years old, I also will forever throw a ball “like a girl.” I will never be able to do a basketball layup shot or hit a golf ball or bowl for that matter.
No. 4: Being smart at math. I am math challenged. Like patience, numbers just jumbled my brain. Back in the day, I was OK with math, but then calculators became the norm and my brain currently refuses to calculate simple multiplication. And now that my phone comes with its own tip calculator, don’t ever count on me to figure out simple percentages in my head any more. That part of my brain has simply atrophied and probably resembles mushy oatmeal. Sad, I know, but true.
No. 3: Fixing my hair. Much to the dismay of my two well-coiffed daughters, I will never learn how to fix my hair. I do not own a curling iron or a hair straightener. (Devices like that would simply send me to the burn unit at the nearest hospital.) I don’t own curlers or fancy-schmancy hair products. I only use a blow dryer so I don’t go to work looking like a stray dog caught in a rainstorm. And yes, I know it shows, but I’ve been that way all my life. In my defense, my hair fixing ability didn’t matter growing up. We can thank the 60s for that. Then I was able to glide unnoticed through the 70s and 80s without even a hair dryer because of perms. Life was good until perms went the way of hiphuggers, Peter Max, and disco balls. I nearly cried.
No. 2: Being a camping gal. Just because I am not a girly-girl, you probably would assume I was a mountain-camping-Cabela-catalog-buying kind of gal. Well, my dears, you would be wrong. My idea of camping involves hot water, 800-thread-count sheets, and room service. It does not involve wild animal noises, mosquitoes the size of small Chihuahuas, or tents with dirt floors. Sadly, I apparently passed that gene down to my eldest daughter who, when she decided to go camping with some friends, called to ask me, “Where can I plug in my hair straightener?” Ah well, at least she got the hair gene.
No. 1: Tied for the Number One spot are, of course, Finding Patience and Befriending Big Fat Stupid Heads… I know the trend these days is to play nice, reach across the aisle, get along, blah blah blah blah. But the older I get, the more tired I get of breathing in stupid and the less inclined I am to not speak the bubble above my head.
Well, I’ve got to go now and check my email. Maybe there’s one from Oprah waiting for me.