The politics of patience

As a younger man, or child, I suppose, I never marveled on my family’s habits surrounding dinner. We ate out fairly often – around once a week, on average – at a proper, sit-down restaurant. And over time, we ended up lingering longer and longer, despite my family’s insistance that we avoid both appetizers and dessert, because my parents were lame. This habit of hanging around grew more and more pronounced throughout my adolescence, as my we continued the weekly ritual even after my parents’ separation. By the time I moved out, our dinners could sometimes span 2 and 1/2 hours – you’d never get out in under an hour and a half, for sure. I thought nothing of this.

We were a little more lively after two hours passed - but not a lot.

Until I met my wife, of course. 

Heather’s never been accused of being patient. She’s frenetic and lively and always has multiple things going on, which is antithetical to the whole calm-and-collected thing. When she was first subjected to our leisurely pace, she started out polite, thinking only the initial dinner was lengthened for her sake, but she quickly became furiously impatient as she came to understand that’s simply how we did things. And over time, her feelings began to pass to me, as all things do in a marriage.

Now, when Heather and I dine out, which we do roughly once a week, an hour is about the longest it ever takes, barring kitchen fires and supply shortages. An hour, even incorporating both appetizer and dessert! Despite my stoicism, it was clear to me very quickly that this was far preferable to the old marathons, and adopted her system with no delay.

However, I find it bleeding over into my normal life more than I’d like, in other situations. Patience has always been something I prized – now I find myself itching to get out of meetings, or parties, or to get on the road home when vacation is ending. 

I’m going to wrap this up.

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