Is it a function of circumstance or personality that I sweat every second, run out on family breakfast—toddler mid-sip from a granola blueberry almond milk mint tea concoction through his bowl with a built-in straw—start the car and scrape windows—flinging a roll of dog shit bags from my pocket, unspooling down the driveway—curse and grab it back up in loose handfuls, measuring and fretting every fractional delay?
Is it that I am this way or was made so, sacrificing a natural inclination towards aimlessness because too much needs to get done for time not to count dear, or neither, or both?
Not everything’s a value judgment.
Not everything’s a rush.
Supposedly it’s ok to be slow, to be late, at least occasionally, for work or appointments. Come to think of it, if not everything is pressing, maybe nothing is.
The man at the tire shop says that even five minutes matter and I’ll have to reschedule, so I may as well stop driving, abandon my car and take up walking everywhere. But my family would worry, so I hurry back home as quickly as I possibly can on flats.