When I lift weights, I tend to rush through the movements. When I’m supposed to sink slowly into a squat, it’s more like a free fall. And yet, when I’m supposed to be explosive, I’m languid and floppy. I think it’s a lack of trust in my abilities, or a sneaking suspicion that my creaky middle age will reveal itself, with all the grace of a fart.
Whatever the reason, I rush, and it limits my potential.
But it isn’t only in the gym. I pour coffee so quickly that it spills on the counter. I often eat my soup cold because it takes too long to warm up properly in the microwave. Watching Game of Thrones is an act of will because I want to fast-forward through all the boring parts, and get back to Dragon-Lady and Hot Little Person. I would know how to spell their names if I took more time.
My husband shakes his head. My Spanish tutor, a native speaker, says I speak Spanish so quickly that she cannot understand me. When I walk, other people jog to keep up.
My coffee addiction is legendary. A girl in my sons’s class said, “Senora! Su cafe es su vida!” Verdad, chica.
My sons’ teachers comment that they rush, that they need to take their time and pay more attention. My mother laughs hysterically as karma does her work.
I am turning 40 this week, so I don’t know how much change is left in me. ls this just who I am? And is this a bad thing?
I have a lavender plant upstairs, that I ignore. It grows, willy-nilly, stretching its branches like a teenager. All lumbering bluster and beauty. It isn’t a orchid, or a rosebud. But it is worthy. Wild and nonsensical, it soothes nevertheless.
I like to think that while I will never be manicured, I will leave my mark on this strange little garden of mine. And maybe I will learn in this next decade how to be more patient.