I just spent an entire three minutes waiting in line at the drive-thru window at my bank. I watched the person in front of me reach out a tentacle arm, fumble with the canister, and pull it into his car.
His vehicle jiggled as he wiggled around the front seat, searching for the check that should have been on his lap, scrounging for a pen, and curling the paper around his steering wheel. A lump of head leaned forward as he signed the check in snailslow cursive.
Finally, after opening the canister and mashing the paper inside, his arm stretched out again and wrangled his transaction into the vacuum carrier.
I had nowhere else to be. It was midday, the sun was shining, and my radio was lulling me with music. But I stared holes through my windshield and muttered my frustration to no one.
The teller exchanged pleasantries with the customer. Asked questions. Moved here and there behind her big window. The song I was enjoying when I got in line was over now, and another began. Songs are about three minutes long. Ridiculous.
Finally. The canister returned. Arm reached, receipt retrieved, canister replaced. The driver shifted into Drive and rolled away so slowly that I could count the tread bumps on his tires.
It was my turn. It was about time. I hoped the teller knew how frustrated I was. Just take my deposit and hurry up, I thought. I smiled toward the window — it was not a friendly smile.
When did I forget how to wait? Is it a skill that shrinks in direct proportion to the amount of time one has left to live? Have I lost the basic rules of patience I’d learned at school and church and while raising snail-slow-moving teens?
We’ve all done our share of waiting in line, over the phone, at doctor and dentist offices, in the drive-thru lane at any fast-food restaurant. Most of the time, we take it in stride, knowing it’s a part of life.
But things are changing in society. We’re growing accustomed to getting what we want when we want it. The speed of information, the availability of any product, and the thrill of instant communication around the world have spoiled us.
We’re becoming entitled, bratty children who pout and complain if we’re inconvenienced in any way. And I am as bad as anyone else.
I try to justify my impatience. I get to an office at the appointed time, so why can’t the doctor see me just as promptly? I have my paperwork in order and ready to go — the unprepared people in front of me should get out of line and do the same.
The light is green now — why shouldn’t I beep to wake up the person in front of me? Once you get out of sequence at stoplights, you’ll be stopped at red from then on.
Thankfully, one of the things that has made us so impatient is also helping us cope. The minute we sit down in a waiting room, most of us flip our phones over and begin tapping away.
Our pacifier phones let us play games, text friends, read books, shop, and find out what is happening anywhere but where we are. A bubble of solitude drops down between our chairs, and until it’s our turn, we are not available for human interaction.
But there are still a few patient souls who remember how to wait. If you lift your head and look around, you may see them. They stare into space, using their free time to dream. Their eyes roam the room, smiling if someone looks back.
And sometimes they just sit back and close those eyes, content to enjoy the calmness of waiting.
If I glance up and notice them, I feel a little jealous. And then, I check the time on my phone again.
