Yesterday a friend told me that she aspires to the level of patience that I have. She must mean when I’m interacting with my kids; there’s no way I could be seen as patient in any other context. My sense of time is very much divided into “now” and “not now.” When is summer? Now. When can I go out and do things? Not now. And since we’re always living in the present moment, “not now” can start to sound a lot like “never.”
I can’t count the number of times Mr. December has said, “Just give it two or three weeks” in response to my speculation on how I might be able to go out in the kayak sooner rather than later. He’s so logical and reasonable—I hate it. He’s often right, and it drives me crazy, because I can see that he’s right, but something in me still disagrees.
That’s probably why my impatience has taken my browsing history in an unusual direction: mobility scooters. Just like in second-year university, when my solution to the problem of a very bad, very long fibro flare was to get myself a wheelchair so I could go back to university and finish the term, I’m looking for a way to reclaim some semblance of the summer I’d planned. A bad knee only stops me from walking, the logic goes, so if I find something to do the walking for me, I can still go places and do things. After all, why should I stay shut inside my house for weeks on end when I could be out and about with my family?
Extreme? Maybe, if you’re the patient type who can wait out an injury without going stir crazy. But for my impatient self, it seems like a decent solution. Too bad Mr. “Just give it two or three weeks” disagrees. But then, as the story of how we started dating illustrates, one of us can bide their time while the other just keeps champing at the bit. Nothing has changed in the last twenty-four years.