Impatience. Sitting in the back of cabs radiating fury. Hopping from foot to foot while the toast is toasting. Drumming fingers in a waiting room. Swearing at the frozen parking app. Spit it out. Get on with it. Why are you driving like a GIRL? I get sexist when I’m impatient. It blurs my faculties. It cuts my smile muscles. I cannot laugh when things are running slightly behind.
This is about control and desperately trying to keep chaos at bay. It is about genuinely feeling that if I am late for a meeting because the Uber driver doesn’t know his Brewer Street from his Shaftesbury Avenue then all hell will break loose and my life will unravel around me like so much wire wool.
Impatience is incredibly unattractive and corrosive and unpleasant to be around. It is chilly and brutal and unsympathetic but the next time you find yourself being sighed at and prodded and needled by someone like me, however annoying and self-indulgent and oppressive that may be, know this: being impatient is sad and unpleasant. You enjoy very little because you are panicking about what comes next. Basically, ‘the journey’ is fucked. Impatience doesn’t come and go, it sits on your shoulder judging, clouding, winding you up into a terrible frenzy. Impatience, like jealousy, does nothing for no one. And meditation doesn’t help.