I am going school clothes shopping tomorrow.
These words fill me with dread. I hate shopping, but that’s not really the point. To illustrate what the point actually is, I’ll tell you what The Grandmother said when I asked her if she wanted to go with me. She said, “Well, we’ll have to hurry up. As usual.”
I am a speed shopper. I could go on one of those game shows where you have to buy the most stuff in a set amount of time and I could kick some serious butt.
It’s sort of a standing joke among my relatives about how I go through the store. I have my list, and I know where everything is. If I forget something and it is more than one or two aisles back, then I don’t get it.
But why? Why am I like this?
Well, usually someone is waiting for me. They are either in the car or here at the house. If I leave everyone here with The Grandmother, I feel pressured to get back so they don’t, like, tie her to a chair or something. I’m worried my sister will have to use the bathroom. I’m worried aliens will attack and I’ll be twenty-five minutes away from the kids. Tomorrow, my husband and The Grandfather will be in charge while we go shopping.
The bad thing is, no matter when I’m shopping or what the circumstances are, I am still in a hurry. In fact, I would say I am always in a hurry. It has become a way of life. Even if my sister is staying with my mom, and the kids are with me, I still catch myself hurrying. Rush rush rush. I can’t help myself.
That’s why I like camping so much. For some reason, up in those mountains, I’m able to slow down. Just sit. Or wander through an antique mall at my leisure. But as soon as I get home, I rush to get unpacked. I can feel the tension, the pressure to get everything done in record time. Rush rush rush.
I even talk fast.
It’s no way to live. I’m rushing through a life that is already flying by. I need to slow down. I need to browse in the store. I need to relax.
I need to go. I have to hurry up and get into bed.
Rush rush rush.