If you know me, or if you have read my past columns, you know that I am often in a rush.
Some might picture “rush” as a charming sort of hurrying. But no, I am talking about a full-on, sweaty, vibrating rush; the kind that inspires a crowd to stare as I pass.
If I am behind people, even if I am rushing quietly, they will turn around to look. I think there is a pulsing energy that pushes out from frantic me and knocks into others. Being late and scurrying has become so much my signature that on the single occasion that I burst into church before the procession began, the priest turned to me and exclaimed, “Mary! What are you doing here? Am I running late?”
Awkward incidents abound when I am in my scrambling glory. I have pulled away from the gas pump with the hose still in my car’s tank, detaching it from its base and dragging it along the road.
I have backed through our just-purchased garage door. I have leaped into the wrong van, not once but twice. The first time the cleanliness of the van tipped me off.
The second time it was the woman who I almost sat on that was my clue. I can only imagine what thoughts raced through her head. She seemed pretty calm, but I think she was preparing her “Don’t hurt me, just take my wallet” speech.
When our first son was new and I was trying to get the two of us out the door on time, I worried that my war with time might damage him. I feared that being dressed and carried at warp speed would forever impact his delicate psyche.
Upon asking her advice, my mother’s wise words were, “He is in tune with your feelings. As long as you remain calm, he will be fine.” Well. He’s sunk.