Patience

September 17, 2012

Patience has never been one of my strong suits. I’m not proud of this, but a writer is nothing if she is not honest; so, there you have it.

I will leave a store without the item I need simply to avoid standing in line. I’ll walk instead of drive to avoid traffic, and when I do get stuck in traffic I follow the second-hand on my watch, compulsively change the radio stations or tweeze my chin hairs with my fingernails. Put me on hold for longer than a minute and I’ll hang up. Meander too far in conversation and I’ll tune out. I’m quick to anger, but I can't tolerate discord, so I’m even quicker to forgive.

Of course, this is all relatively small stuff. What isn’t small is the notion of settling for less. I’m not talking about less pasta on my plate; I’m talking about less satisfaction in my life: in my work, in my relationships. For this, I have no patience. This is not a matter of arrogance. It is a matter of time.

Something happened once I passed 50: Time started speeding up. One day melts into the next. I wake up and it feels like I just went to bed (which is not totally inaccurate, since I seem to be sleeping less). Summer vacations zoom by and the distance between August and Thanksgiving no longer feels like a stretch. One minute my kids were in nursery school, then they were taking driver’s ed. Now, one is in college and the other is studying for the SATs. And, F. and I are talking about a future that once seemed distant: selling the house, moving away, wondering if we can ever afford to retire.

This is the natural evolution of things. And, maybe because I am older and moving more slowly, everything around me seems to be speeding up. Regardless, the facts are indisputable: I have less than more time left in my life, and I don’t want to waste any of it.

Which brings me to work and relationships.

I can count on one hand the number of friends who hold my heart and whose hearts I hold. I count myself lucky.

I have room for more, but I don’t have room for less: That is, I am always happy for more good friends, but I have little time for acquaintanceships. Superficial relationships feel like eating sugary breakfast cereal: they give me a quick kick and leave me hungry. Sure, sometimes I'm lonely. But at 54, I finally enjoy my own company enough to be alone, rather than lonely with someone else.

Similarly, I no longer want to strain at a job that does not nourish me. For the past two years I’ve been a square peg in a round hole, working at a job to which I am suited about as well as I’d be suited at cattle rustling. That I took the job (technical editing)—that I was even hired—seems illogical to me now (they let me work from home two days a week, which is very appealing for a parent). I have tried every which way to talk myself into liking it and performing better at it, neither of which I’m pulling off.

In this economy, the thought of leaving a job to return to a career as a fulltime freelance writer seems ludicrous. But living day in and out trying to force myself to be something I’m not seems like an absurd waste of time.

And I don’t have the time to waste. Stay tuned.