~This is a new post~
It’s 7:15 am and I’m driving to work and the silver SUV behind me is riding my tail.
In the rear view mirror, I see a women with bright red lipstick in the driver’s seat motioning for me to move out of her way.
I can’t hear her but she’s yelling, “Move! Move!”
I’m doing 55 mph. The speed limit is 45.
Now– maybe there’s a time bomb in the glove compartment. Or there’s a mare giving birth in the backseat. Or a there’s a leaky barrel of plutonium in the trunk. Maybe all three are happening at once this morning.
Or maybe the woman with bright red lipstick is just late for work.
We all seem to be in a hurry.
A hurry to grow up. A hurry to find success. A hurry to collect achievements. A hurry to make money. And a hurry to grow young again.
We cram our schedules. We eat at red lights, talk by text messages, and breath between emails.
All this speed yet, magically still, time contracts. Like somehow in adult life there’s only 50 seconds in a minute.
So we exhale and shake our head and declare there’s not enough time in the day. Just. Not. Enough Time.
But where has all the hurrying got us?
Have we arrived any faster?
Or have we just heightened our anger and anxiety because we’re not where we want to be?
So–where do you want to be?
I want to be in a bookstore running my hand over a book jacket with my name on it. I want to be autographing the dedication page. I want to be sitting at a table, covered in a white table cloth, with a bottle of water to my right, fielding questions about chapter 3.
That’s where I want to be.
But I’m here, driving and taking notes–there’s a silver SUV and a woman in bright red lipstick kissing my tailgate and the sun is bright and ascending and we’re driving into the hard light at 55 mph.
I check the rear-view mirror and swallow down the feeling that I should be in the bookstore already.
I’ll be 39 in two weeks. What am I waiting for?
But I’m not in the bookstore. I’m still on the road. Absorbing the details. The Silver SUV. The bright red lipstick. I’m still learning how to write stories. How to tell you all the things I’m thinking.
The road widens to two lanes. The silver SUV screams by. Exhaust and taillights and tires and bright red lipstick all hurrying to be somewhere else.
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