I am the person who steams and huffs and rolls her eyes when you stand at the deli counter ordering half pound quantities of three different deli meats. Yet now, in midlife, I suddenly do see my affect. Working at home and raising two children, my world has shrunk to a quadrant of ten city blocks. I tread the same paths each day and people who once were strangers are now acquaintances.
My actions have consequences that reverberate. If I swear at the Duane Reade cashier, she will slyly slow her movements to the pace of molasses.
They live life as if they had their ankles dangling permanently in a soft Caribbean Sea. They move through the crowded produce section like Tai Chi masters whose feet seem to float and whose hands part invisible curtains in the air.
Frogs and toads and snakes come out of my mouth. My 4-year-old son puts his pants on backwards in the dressing room and giggles. He struggles with his button. He dawdles over his sandals. Two minutes later he leads my son to me. I see my affect. I must hold him and hold him. The idea of patience calms me, but eludes me when I really need it. Ironically, my older sister, paragon of patience, actually buys these books and has gone to New Age workshops with Vietnamese monks and participants wearing teal and purple sweatsuits.
We love each other dearly, but periodically she scolds me for my impatience. One night we sat in a high-priced Indian restaurant waiting forty-five minutes for our food to arrive. After the first fifteen minutes I start swiveling my head around and giving the obsequious waiters pointed stares. As they remain stubbornly uncommunicative about the whereabouts of the masala dosas, I get into a rage not knowing when a period of waiting will end throws me into an existential tailspin.
