A glass of wine does a whole lot of good for me. Shame my apartment is dry. Except for this semi-sweet Merlot that was gifted to me. I’ve been mixing it with bubbly water and a twist of lime–turning it into a spritzer. Otherwise it would be undrinkable to me. But I’m not in the mood for that right now.
Oh, right. And a fancy Barolo, another gift. This one was from a famous icon who was subleasing the apartment across from mine for a few months. He made me promise to wait to open it until he returned. I didn’t promise. But still.
It’s not a drink now wine. It has the potential to age and develop beautifully if I simply wait.
I’m perfectly fine waiting for the right time to pull the cork, whether it’s for a particular occasion or simply because it feels right and I want to do it.
To quote Margaret Thatcher, “I’m extraordinarily patient, as long as I get my way in the end.”
In other words, when my desired outcome materializes. When there’s no pressure. When I’m perfectly content and happy with the unfolding events.
I suppose if you’re restless and unhappy, patience would be more accurately described as impatience–regardless of the desired outcome. And if left to grow, would result in discontentment.
On the subway today, on my way home, I found myself growing extremely annoyed and uncomfortable. Irrationally so.
I have a few pet peeves and while they affect me most when I’m commuting, regardless of the environment, I simply can’t ever get myself to ignore them. I’ve tried. Really.
I’m on the F line, downtown to Brooklyn, headed home, standing, leaning against the doors. At Broadway Lafayette, a woman, maybe 25, dirty blond stringy bob, thin, pale skin, black scuffed ankle boots, large black purse, walks into the train and sits down across from me.
She opens her purse, pulls out a lipstick. It’s new, she’s peeling the protective sticker which gives her some trouble. After a minute, she gets the sticker off and lets her hand fall to her side and drops the sticker to the floor. She does the same with the protective layer on what looks like blush or foundation. Then eyeliner. Then a face cream. Then a lipgloss.
It goes on like this until Essex, one stop from my exit. And with each cosmetic and sticker and plastic littering, my heart races. I feel my chest constricting.
She thankfully hasn’t bought all of Sephora (more likely Duane Reade) and eventually finishes leaving her trash everywhere.
She sticks her fingers in her mouth. Not just to take the sticker glue off. She starts aggressively chewing them. Bites them. Looks at them. Pulls at them with her teeth. Takes her fingers out. Chews on her nails for a few seconds. Swallows. Then continues the wretched process for the rest of my commute.
Those car doors couldn’t open fast enough. I have little patience for bad hygiene and a blatant disregard for shared public space.
It’s not my way. I was not getting my way.
There was no patience. I wanted out.
Now though, I just wish I had the patience then to say something. Even do something subtle to take her out of her state, point out what’s been dropped or interrupt the finger chewing by asking for the time.
These things probably won’t change her behavior or habit. But at least it might remind her that she’s not alone; she’s in public. Sharing space with me. With others.
Maybe others have or will point it out to her. Or maybe she’ll come to it on her own. I hope all of the above.