My dear fellow, I’m really curious about how you managed to survive before texting, Facebook, and cell phones. After all, you were born halfway through the ’60s, experienced your nostalgically idealized childhood in the ’70s, and rocked through your ’80’s adolescence.
You grew up with short, spiral cords attached to big, heavy phones attached to walls, in the era when answering machines were a novelty and voicemail didn’t exist.
I receive the first text notification, then, while I’m painstakingly tapping out my reply, I hear three more whooshes and see your final text with a snarky, disgruntled, passive-aggressive comment about me ignoring you…followed by four, reddish-orange angry emojis.
The first text was time stamped three minutes (or less) before I tapped “send” on my first reply.
God forbid I be in the middle of being a mom, grandma, or friend. Heaven help me if I’m showering, sleeping, or otherwise engaged in self-care. Meetings, appointments, and attendance at public events aren’t even a consideration.
I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like to be trapped in your psyche.
I realize that this angry impatience is rooted in a myriad of things, many which are, quite literally, out of your control.
That being said…I’m over it.
You are “tyranny of the urgent” incarnate…and you, my dear tyrant, have been displaced.
You are a child of God, as am I, which makes you my brother. Like me, you are cherished, loved, and flawless in our Father’s eyes.
Sadly, my vision is somewhat impaired and often clouded by a haze of exasperated agitation whenever I see a text from you.
It’s taken me awhile, but, I’m finally reaching a point where I don’t stop (whatever I’m doing), drop (any other conversation), and roll (over and succumb to the insatiable hunger of your ire).
Your impatience is yours to resolve, not mine to fix.
Good luck with that.