All of my many off-putting traits boil down to impatience.
I stand too close to the baggage carousel. I cannot recall the last time I waited for the pedestrian light to turn green. I frequently make up outlandish calamities to skip the queue: “I’m so sorry, my puppy needs to go into emergency surgery! Can I please order my cold brew before you?”
I know I am never seeing heaven. But perhaps I am already in hell – which, famously, is other people. Or more specifically: other people who stand on the right-hand side of the escalator, immobile.
In my utopian fantasy, the fast lane of an escalator is reserved for those with a commitment to speed. Those with an allegro spring to their step; those who read the phrase “the human race” and think it’s a track competition.
This is because I am insane and need to march up the escalator two steps at a time. This is because I learned the words “incidental exercise” at a hopelessly formative age and now view any set of stairs as a cardio challenge.
When I am on the escalator, I want to feel unburdened by my sins. I am a rabbit bounding up a hill polka-dotted with daffodils; I am Rocky sprinting up those steps, the cheers of 800 happy children echoing in my ears. Unfortunately I am blocked by stragglers and layabouts, luggage bags and errant limbs. My jaunty foxtrot becomes a funeral dirge. Suddenly we are lambs to the slaughter.
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Please, please, please pick up the tempo. I have a puppy to attend to.
