Huh

I’ve never sat writing in my winter boots before, at least not inside. I’ve also never, not to my memory, burped up chocolate guacamole, which also just happened, but that is beside the point.

I’m here writing in my clunky winter boots because a guy was supposed to be here almost an hour ago to walk around out in the cold with me, imagining warmer days and earthwork and landscaping and a long overdue project, and said guy has yet to show up.

The largest problem (not a problem) with this is that when I set my intentions for the day (this is a new thing, very fringy and experimental), I very specifically decided that I would actively roll with it today. That I would take whatever came to me today in stride. Like a boss.

This shouldn’t be that tall of an order when the car is in the shop and I get to spend the day at home, all alone, but–’know thyself’–it kind of is.

It took some reminders through the morning, like when the wood crock was empty and the fireplace refused to erupt into flame without fuel, but we made it through. Pacing my halls in my winter boots for yet another late contractor, however, required more than just reminders.

You see, I employ a lot of my mental capacities in anticipation of things.

I hate it when I have to leave home, but not yet. When I have to leave home in 45 minutes. So there are 45 minutes to fill, and I will now commence not being able to do anything at all except to wait. Drives me batty.

I hate it when I’m waiting for the hubs to leave home. When he’s got to run in half an hour, for this or for that, and really, why would I bother starting anything until he’s gone, when I can get a clean go at it? If I start anything now, I’ll just be splitting my attention between that thing and the primary task of waiting, and we know how well I split my attentions.

(If you thought I was going to say I’d be splitting my attentions between that thing I needed to start and my husband himself, you are very kind and generous; thank you. That is sometimes true.)

So when there’s a guy coming, you know, to look at my dirt, I’m Waiting. When he’s late—like a lot late—I’m waiting even more.

But I have determined to not get riled.

Breathe in, breathe out.

I decided to play with my Rubik’s Cube. In my boots. Kill some time. Take my average time down by a few seconds, or, as the case may be, double it, because I’m too focused on waiting.

That wasn’t working too well, and we were 15 minutes in to the late part of the waiting (we won’t count the pre-late part of the waiting; that’s not even fair).

I decided to read my lovely little book for a bit. Use this opportunity to do the thing that I haven’t been able to do yet today.

Who talks about waiting as the window into the soul or some such thing? How waiting is really just an opportunity to be, and why worry it so much. The difference between standing in the grocery line spreading agitation like Omicron, making it clear that you have very important places to be, far more important than all of these people here in your way, and standing in the grocery line taking a moment to breathe. To observe–ahem, gently–some other humans. To see their struggles maybe. To offer them a smile. It’s a big difference. Who is that?

Also, I don’t really want to get mad at this guy, only the 95^th guy to be horrid about keeping appointments and promises, and only the 95^th reason this project hasn’t made a single move in well-over a year, and I don’t want to assume he’s an ass, because, well, that’s not generally productive for him nor me (even through I’m SO good at it).

So I read my little book, which is lovely, and is far-too short, so I’m already grieving it’s loss and I’m not even done yet. And I read it without rushing, because what else is there? Just a little more waiting as far as I can tell. Might as well savor it.

I read myself a chapter, and then, 25 minutes into the late-wait, think maybe I should text him. Not passive aggressively, as is my wont. But also not just ignoring the fact that I’ve been here in my boots for half an hour, and I would really like to break ground SOME DAY. And also maybe acknowledging that the guy could have just plum forgot. So I sent him a little text. “Hey Lloyd. Everything OK?” That was it.

No reply. Which didn’t really help with my benefit of the doubt. But we must press on.

I got myself some chocolate chips, because when in doubt…

And then I tucked into another book, for the first one, the lovely little one, was going far too fast, and needed to be rationed. Funnily enough, #2 casually reminded me to Be The Stream. Sneaky-like.

And then, after a chapter there, I decided that I might as well write. It was The Thing that was being postponed until after the meeting with Mr. Lloyd anyway, and the guy was nowhere in sight, so 49 minutes into the late-wait, I walked my boots into the office and sat down here to write.

And within 30 seconds, I kid you not, my phone went off.

Our man Lloyd is in the ER with one of his employees, stapling his arm back together after an undisclosed work accident (I assume Lloyd’s not the one actually doing the stapling. But I guess he didn’t specify.). He forgot, in all the hubbub, to call. He was chagrined, as one might imagine, if one was being generous with their benefit of the doubt. Which, today, by some cosmic mercies, I was. What a pleasure.

Also, because of that little intention, and the mysterious grace of following through, even in that hellscape of waiting (hyperbole? doubtful.), I didn’t have to turn seven shades of purple here in my sunny office, all alone, feeling horrible about all the ill-wishes I had been heaping upon him. I could just smile (because wow was this a setup), and respond with love; send him back to tending his wounded, and offer him the grace that I sure as hell hope any other human would offer me.

It was a nice change of scenery. Intention Experiment, score one.

We shall refrain from publishing the score of the worthy opponent, Me.

So now I guess I might as well go for a walk. Because my boots are already on.

You know where to find me,
KJ