We drove down the interstate on the way to the beach for a few days of rest and relaxation. My husband sat in the driver’s seat of our large, black pickup truck, and I took up my position as navigator by his side. The posted speed limit of 70 mph was in prevalent view, but as we got closer to Tampa it wasn’t really necessary. Traffic began to slow, and a line of brake lights could be seen in the distance. Other vehicles sped around us as my husband slowed, and they zoomed ahead only to quickly slam on their brakes as they came upon the gridlock.
“I don’t get these people,” my husband mused. “Do they really think they’re getting that much further ahead?!”
It reminded me of something I might have done once upon a time, cursing under my breath at the audacity of traffic-law obeyers, road rage accompanying me to the next red light.
“It’s the way of the world,” I answered. “Everyone is in a hurry. Rushing is a way of life.”
I was glad I didn’t subscribe to that racing magazine any longer, but a feeling of melancholy over not seeing it sooner came on me as I spoke.
“I can remember when I was stuck in the rush,” I told my husband, as I described the way I existed on the daily not that long ago.
Rushing Through Life
I can remember hating car seats. I had three kids in car seats of sorts, and I would get so frustrated with the action of loading, unloading, and reloading them all into my minivan. It took so long! And despite the new van with automatic doors and all the bells and whistles, until it could help me achieve a quicker exodus of the vehicle, it was all for naught. I was always rushing to get them in the van.
I would hurry into Walmart, feeling rushed the entire time, speeding through the aisles on two wheels, acting short with the children. The crazy part was usually the only existing thing on my agenda that evening was putting the groceries away and cooking supper. It wasn’t like I had to report to duty, like I was in the military again. I was on a schedule of my own making. I was my own cruel timekeeper, pushing myself to finish one task so I might complete another.
I would hurry to get the girls out the door. Even on a day of fun, I would rush. To the water park, we would hurry. We weren’t required to get there at a certain time, but rushing had become the norm. I knew no other way to function, sadly. We weren’t required as part of some “Society of Childhood Betterment” to go to the park or the zoo. I made these demands on myself. It made me feel like a better mother to take them places, but I had become so accustomed to hurrying that I even hurried through fun.
“Come on!”