Patience

I love myself unconditionally—anyone who’s known me for longer than a week can attest to that. But I’m critical enough of myself to know what my flaws are. Now, I don’t have many, but the ones that I do have are doozies. I’ll start by discussing what I perceive as my greatest character flaw—my impatience.

I hate to wait, since most waiting is a waste of time. Yes, modern technology has greatly diminished the amount of time we waste by waiting, and it can help fill the time we waste by waiting (for example, as I’m waiting in line at the grocery store “customer care” counter to reload my shopping card and my wait is prolonged because the person in front of me must complete five forms to wire money to her relatives in Omaha—and she insists on completing all five forms right at the counter where I need to transact my business...during this time, I can check my email on my iPhone). I suspect my antipathy toward time spent waiting stems from other people’s lack of preparation to do something they should be fully prepared to do. Lemme give you a fer’instance—I browse through Borders and locate the item I want to purchase. As I get in line to pay, I approach the checkout counter with my Borders Rewards card out, my coupon and my debit card ready. The person in front of me has, of course, an armful of books, magazines, CDs, and DVDs. She approaches the counter, piles her items in front of the cashier, and stares vapidly as if she has no clue what the next step in this schema could be. The cashier patiently begins to guide her through the checkout process:

“Hi. Did you find everything you were looking for?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have a Borders Rewards card?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The increasingly annoying customer then begins to rummage through her microwave oven-sized purse. After three rather thorough searches, she announces that she doesn’t have her card with her—shocking, I know—so the cashier looks up her account using her phone number, which yields no results until Annoying Customer remembers that she recently changed her phone number, so the account is probably still listed under her old number. Once this matter is resolved, the customer produces a coupon and insists on using it on an unusually expensive magazine. The cashier politely informs her that coupons may not be used on magazines. In fact, it says so right there on the coupon. Annoying Customer becomes flustered, huffs and puffs for a few moments, then consents to use the coupon toward one of the books she’s purchasing.

Now begins the quest for a form of payment. Brace yourself for this one—in this age of electronic everything, this customer whips out a checkbook. Now I ask you, who the heck uses a personal check to make in-person retail purchases nowadays? OK, let me be gracious enough to understand that the use of technology might surpass the capacity of this diaper-wearing dinosaur’s intellect—but, please—if you insist on using a check, could you save a few minutes of my life and start writing the check BEFORE you reach the counter? Let’s look at all the information you can fill in before you know the exact amount of your purchase: date, “payable to,” and signature. When you get to the checkout counter, you can be ready with your check mostly completed, except for the total amount due. But no—I ask for too much. Annoying Customer must engage in her check-writing ritual, which involves locating the “right” pen, calibrating its ink, meticulously executing her penmanship, entering the check information in her register, calculating her new balance, carefully tearing the check from the pad, and ceremoniously handing the check to the cashier as if she were bestowing upon her the Holy Grail itself.  But alas, Annoying Customer has entered the wrong date on the check, so she must repeat the ritual.

I fume silently but noticeably. Once Annoying Customer’s transaction is complete, a full 10 minutes have elapsed. I have passed the point of fury, and I am now simply bemused. When I approach the counter with all items ready to complete the transaction swiftly and efficiently, the cashier—who recognizes me because I’m a regular customer—chuckles, and we share the tacit irony of the moment.

As I leave the store (approximately two minutes later), I wonder how much of my life has been wasted waiting for other people to complete tasks they should have been able to complete in less than half the time it takes them. Of course, there’s no way to tell, so I decide I’d rather not waste the time trying to figure it out.