Waiting

I’m not good at waiting. Never have been.

Please don’t text that you’re stopping by my house in a few minutes because my day will be completely lost until you arrive.

I won’t want to start a television show that will be interrupted.

I won’t want to play the piano because I might not hear the doorbell.

I won’t want to sit on the potty because, dang it, you might ring just about the time I get comfortable.

And then, of course, there’s the anxiety about my dog, Prince, who is not fond of visitors or doorbells. If I know exactly when you’ll arrive, I can put him in the back yard and maybe—just maybe—have a few minutes to welcome you before he tries to come through the window for you.

If I put him out too far in advance, he’ll just want back in and then I’ll be on pins and needles. Again.

Wondering when you’ll arrive.

Wondering when the bell will ring.

Wondering what Prince will do and how I’ll manage it.

And waiting.

Did I mention that I hate waiting?