Sit Down, Shut Up, and Be Patient

(Editor’s Note: This is a tongue-in-cheek, humorous post about patience, or a lack thereof.)

I am a very patient person. I have to be. Every weekday, I drive fifteen miles through traffic, construction, and one major interstate to get to work. Apparently, people in the area think that the “big black hole” known as the “tunnel” requires them to slam on their brakes and slow to 25 miles per hour.

HELLO!

Your little braking incident just backed up traffic for seven miles…and it’s not even rush hour! I can make this drive in ten minutes at 2 a.m. Why, then, does it take me thirty minutes at 12 noon?

But back to my main point. I am a very patient person. I have to be. Every five weeks, I teach and reteach fifty to seventy students the same basic writing and grammar skills that they should have (and failed) to learn in high school. Or elementary school. I constantly deal with the question, “Why wasn’t I taught this before?”

*sigh*

You were taught this before. Several times. You just didn’t pay attention during the first eighteen years of your life. I am sure that if this material had been a part of a video game, you would have memorized it.

But I digress. I am a very patient person. I have to be. Each week when I go to the grocery store, coupons in hand, I have to watch carefully as each item is rung through the register. Then I need to calmly explain, each week, why the coupon that says “Save $1 on five cans of Spaghetti-O’s” is valid on the five cans of Spaghetti-O’s that I just purchased.

*facepalm*

Can you count to five? Seriously? I mean, how hard is it to count to five? The three year old standing in line behind me with his mother can count to five! One.Two.Three.Four.Five. I’m not sure what is so difficult about all this. And no, I do not want to wait twenty minutes so that you can find a manager to help you count to five.

But I’m off-topic again. I am a very patient person. I have to be. At least one day a week, I arrive home to solve different household tragedies. Many of these household tragedies involve laundry. Missing socks, wrinkled clothes. But without fail, I spend one day a month answering the astounding question, “Why are my white underwear now pink?”

ARGH!

Red shirt plus hot water equals pink underwear. I know you are trying to help mommy, but if you don’t understand that concept, could you please not touch the washing machine? Or, at least, don’t put any white clothes in the wash. Yes, you are still going to wear the pink underwear, and I don’t care if they look like girly pants now. Next time, you’ll remember to not put a red shirt in with them.

But like I said, I am a very patient person.

Melissa recounts episodes of her enduring patience in her blog, And Baby Makes Three…

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