Patience.

Moments ago, I spit forth a stream of vile obscenities that would have made any Navy SEAL turn his head with a giddy eye twinkle thinking he was amidst one of his own. The victim of my ire? A bi-fold door. A bi-fold door that I have fixed four previous times because it is continually assaulted by a marauding 9-month old German Shepherd. Why didn’t I yell at the puppy? Because I have infinite patience with animals and children. Inanimate objects? Not so much.

Whenever I hear someone described as incredibly patient, I think, ‘You just haven’t found their deal yet.’ Everybody has his or her deal. No one is intrinsically patient or impatient; we all have limitations. I am honored that many people describe me as calm, tolerant, and understanding; those are nice words, and for the most part, they are representative of my demeanor. Being perceived as benevolent and possessing risibility are qualities for which I have worked. With that said, within a day, a dozen different imbroglios can cause me to behave like an ogre on PCP. And, the events that may cause me to react in that manner are entirely different than what makes another person crazed. I can have someone tell me that they wrecked my car… “Okay. I never liked it much anyway. Are you all right?” or they ate the last of the cheese… “Odd choice considering my addiction, but that’s fine. There’s more cheese in the world. Please go get some.” But then, I can try fervently to fit a square peg into a round hole and go completely batshit… “That’s it! Where’s a fucking flame thrower!?!” Obviously, I’m no Job. Or Micah. Or Ayyūb. I’m actually kind of a wank in many situations.

Patience is not about being good-natured so much as it is about pacing. When one mimics the pace of another, they exhibit patience. When I am with children, I go along with their pace and, if need be, strategically alter their pace and direction to meet the needs of the situation. I do not yell and scream; I am firm yet casual in my requests and make them appear interesting to the child, as opposed to an authoritative demand. And with animals? I play Alpha Dog; I am not intimidated by their behavior because I have enough experience to understand their aggression, fear, and games. I can tell within seconds if a dog is a poseur or freaking cuckoo. If, indeed, the dog is the latter, I tend to back away slowly. Of the many dogs I have encountered, I would guess only about 2-5% are mentally off; the rest are looking for guidance, praise, and limits.

Much to my dismay, I have never been able to match the pace of the elderly. By elderly, I do not mean the spry chatterbox neighbor who sports a kicky scarf and recently signed up for kitesurfing classes; I mean the skin on bones, barely moving, needs to have the heat set at 85 degrees and the television volume at the highest decibel level old person. The grandfather of a friend of mine was an extremely interesting man. Minimally educated, he eventually rose to the position of Minnesota State Senator. He had been a logger and worked his way up to serving on the University of Minnesota, Board of Regents, eventually having a campus building named after him. Of Norwegian blood, he was taciturn and industrious, and also equitable, honorable, and clever. He met many U.S. Presidents through his life and was well-respected by all. When he passed away, the now deceased U.S. Senator Paul Wellstone called the family to offer his condolences. The man had an incredible life. Yet, while visiting him, he would tell stories so slowly that I nearly combusted. “In 1939… a gentleman named………… Tom……. Stanley… no… Sherman… um… Sherman Thomas from…. Polk County… near Grand Forks…” The pauses were so lengthy, I wondered aloud to my friend, “Did he just die? Is he still breathing? Check his pulse.” She shushed me with a crinkled brow and eventually her grandfather would resume his story. In truth, I would have loved to have read a book about his life. I would have loved to have a conversation with him had he been twenty years younger. I couldn’t change my pace to match his and became impatient. I became restless and a little petulant. Numerous times I tossed on my coat and escaped into the cold for a cigarette, mumbling, “I could be out here for an hour, what would I miss? Nothing. Same sentence. ‘Grand Forks… north of Fargo... Tom… no, um, Sherman…’” I would spin in growly circles, stretch my neck, and tetchily jump in place before returning inside.

Not too long ago, I had to exhibit patience in a number of regards. I was awaiting test results, diagnoses, outlooks, expectancies, all kinds of things that, if I had gotten shit-faced or cried incessantly or found myself in a straight jacket, most folks would have said, “Well, can’t really blame her considering the circumstances.” I would have blamed me, though. I would have felt as if my emotional growth had reverted, that my earned skill of self-solace was fraudulent, and that my perspective was skewed, being reactionary before knowing reality. Some friends were worrisome, thinking that I was in denial. They were incorrect. One does not have to be consumed with the possibilities; one need only be aware. One need not rehearse outcomes; there will be plenty of time for jubilance or sorrow or nothing. My closest friend, Lara, knows this. She and I have had frank discussions, but she never pushes me. We have synchronicity, pacing and spacing, comfort and contentment, the deep desire to assure the other is happy and her needs are met without being overbearing. We have that amazing flow, never needing the other to perform or please or pity, knowing the other doesn’t need continual attention and fawning. We have patience with one another, whether I am incapacitated and need much sleep or she is having blood sugar issues and needs nourishment. I can be stupid and sick; she can be surly and agitated. We know what’s going on. However, while playing a raucous game of CatchPhrase, I must admit, I may have exhibited a bit less patience. But, no root beer references, and there were many, were making her get the “frosty mug” answer. With veins popping blue on my forehead, I tried the snowman aspect. She twisted her face, raised her eyebrow, clueless. Clenching my shirt in an attempt to rip my aorta from my chest and end my anguish, I shrieked, “THE MOST FAMOUS FUCKING SNOWMAN!!!” It wasn’t my finest moment, but anyone with a competitive board game spirit would surely understand. It’s part of my deal.

I will continue to attempt to broaden my patience. It is not that I desire to achieve any of the Seven Heavenly Virtues; I don’t give a hoo-hay in that regard. I do, however, believe that other beings deserve respect, and when I exhibit tolerance and longanimity, I like to think that I added civility sprinkle onto my surroundings. Until I improve, someone else can handle storytelling by senior citizens. I’ll be in the other room listening to a toddler tell the same knock-knock joke for a few hours.