If I were a car, I’d be one stuck on overdrive.
During sixth grade, I prepared all year for an exam that would allow me to transfer from one school to a better one. After ten months of obscene hours of studying, private lessons, and a ruined summer, three days before the exam I found out that the school would only accept one person.
Almost a hundred of us taking the test and they would let in only one person.
I had no chance in hell.
But I’d come this far and I was going to take the damn test regardless. On the morning of the exam, I woke up with a fever of 38.5, which is 101.3 for the Celsius challenged. It seemed like all signs pointed to this school not being in my future.
I went to the test nonetheless. And because I was so sick, I read each question several times, ensuring myself I knew exactly what they were asking. I took my sweet ass time and I didn’t worry, mostly cause I couldn’t; it was already too much effort to keep my eyelids from closing.
And, of course, I got in. (Otherwise my telling this story would be pointless, right?)
I know that the only reason I scored so high on that test was cause I was too tired to rush through it. I didn’t make the usual mistakes that come from hurriedly misreading the question.
I’ve always done a million things at once. The TV would blast while I did homework. I did my undergraduate degree and graduate degree simultaneously. During the same four years, I held five different jobs on campus, dated two different men (not simultaneously of course!) so it wasn’t like I was closed up in my room studying all the time. Even when I walk down the street I walk rapidly, more concerned with my destination than my route. Always rushing. If I’m not doing a million things, I’m often doing nothing. It’s like a car that can do 0 or 100 but nothing in between.
I know that I have my mom to thank for these specific genes. She suffers from the same speed problem and often complains at the end of each day about how she has a million things to do and how she feels overwhelmingly worn out.
On Saturday, I lifted one of my nephews in an effort to stop him from jumping into the not-so-clean waters of the Bosphorus. Within twenty seconds, my back reminded me what a completely moronic decision that was. Pains started shooting up and down my left leg.
So my back is broke. Again.
Now I’m walking, more like limping I guess, around New York City, slowly.
Slowly.
I am taking my time. I have no choice. But I’m realizing that while fast accomplishes many things, slow is crucial. It makes you pay attention. It makes you see details. It makes you think.
It makes you enjoy.
I’m sad it took my body’s incapacity to get me here, but I’m trying to make the most of it. I’m learning that sometimes you want to cruise at 40 and appreciate the landscape.
Previously? Hatred.
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