Waiting can be a hassle, but more and more I find myself rolling with life’s inevitable delays. The world, contrary to the way things ought to be, doesn’t revolve around me. My delay is another person’s smooth sailing.
Just this morning, the person I was supposed to meet texted me that he couldn’t make it on time. A few years ago I might have gotten impatient. I might have tapped my feet, looked at my watch, and given every outward sign of impatience. But really, what’s the point? It’s not going to make traffic flow any faster.
What’s even crazier, I might well have displayed the same impatience even if I hadn’t initially felt it. Why? To feel normal, maybe? After all, when people wait, they feel impatient. And if for some reason they don’t, they must be weird.
These days, I embrace my weirdness. Why would I display a feeling I don’t have? To be socially acceptable? Well, news flash: Strangers don’t give a shit about my feelings, because they’re way too caught up in their own. And anyway, I don’t care all that much either what random strangers might or might not think of me.
So these days, when I’m in waiting mode and not drafting another Musing on my phone, I just sit and look around. After all, people-watching is practically research for us writers. So I’m not waiting. I’m researching.
Sometimes, though, and at my most mindful, I’m not waiting at all. I’m just being.