I can look back on December 12th with grand amusement now because just one hour after the day concluded, I went into labor and had my daughter in my arms before supper. However, at the moment, the prospect of waiting for an indeterminate amount of days was more traumatic than the birth itself. This just goes to show how much I hate waiting. Man oh man, do I hate waiting. I’d like to think I possess quite a few virtues. Humility, integrity, morality, nobility, decency, masculinity, and probably any other virtues ending in ‘y.' Patience, however, does not end in ‘y,' which is probably why I find this trait so elusive.
Recently, I have been plagued with much waiting. At the end of February, Paul learned that he had been nominated to join the executive team on a retreat in April to Cancun, Mexico. It was an entirely unexpected but completely welcomed break from the rigors of life. Unfortunately, because we had no plans on leaving the country anytime soon, we needed to quickly procure passports as to not miss the trip. The kind passport lady said it could take up to six weeks for our passports to arrive by mail. She also had to take our birth certificates and told us to keep an eye out for those too. Likewise, since I had just graduated, I was waiting for my diploma, and during this time, Paul renewed his driver’s license. With so many sensitive documents floating around the postal sphere and a recent mail theft plaguing our sense of security, the wait seemed painfully long. Each day I checked the mail only to find grocery store fliers and credit card come-ons escalated my anxiety to the point that had to hold back tears as I dumped my junk mail into the recycling bin. It seems so silly now that everything has arrived safe and sound, but my impatient self doesn't care. It’s like waiting transforms me into a caged animal. You would think after twenty-seven years on this great green earth, I would have finally earned my patience badge for my virtue sash, but alas. I think the older I’ve gotten, the harder waiting has become. After all, every day is a day closer to death and yet another day that I’m not in Cancun.