The lines at the Costco gas station can be ridiculously long, and today was no exception. When there were still four cars in front of me, I popped the gas cover in preparation for my turn. When I was second in line, I got my credit card out of my wallet and held it with my left hand. I saw the station attendant walk from car to car, instructing them to move to the available front gas pump, should the back pump still be occupied.
When I pulled up to the back pump, the lady at the front pump was just about to finish up. I turned the car off, hopped out, and unscrewed the gas cap with my right hand while I inserted my credit card with my left. I had the nozzle in and started pumping gas before the lady even drove off.
I pulled out my cell phone to type a reply email to my lawyer. A few words into it, the gas pump jerked and stopped. 3 gallons. Errgh. The station attendents have told me on many different occasions that this happens to certain car models. The pump will jerk and stop after every half gallon or so. You have to hold the handle halfway up until it stops, then you have to pull it up again and again and again. I knew I had about 7 more gallons to go.
I saw the lady behind me in line hadn’t pulled up to the front pump. So I motioned to her to go around me. Eyes buldging, she threw her hands up in exasperation and yelled, “HURRY THE F*** UP!!!” Well, I couldn’t hear her, but I pretty much knew what she said.
I was instantly irritated. Was I mad because she was yelling at me? How could I even know she was directing it to me? I’ve been in the car, enthusiasticly reenacting a vulgar scene for my passenger before. Passerbys could’ve interpreted that those words and mgestures were directed at them. That could’ve been the scenario… but even that possibility didn’t reduce my irritation. That indicated that it wasn’t the woman’s mannerisms that bothered me, but what I thought of what she said. So it was me that was bothering me.
I finished up at the gas pump and screwed the gas cap back on. I was trying to figure out what I thought “hurry the f*** up” meant to me. Before I could figure it out, I turned and looked at the lady who, in the entire time I was battling my jerking pump, still hadn’t pulled up to the vacant forward pump. I would never do that. What a waste of time. And how rude to the other people waiting in the long line. Plus, the attendant already told people in line to pull up to the vacant pump, so she wasn’t following instructions. I wasn’t wrong, she was. I had done everything right. Above and beyond the expectations, in fact. Who else would be faster at getting the credit card in the machine and gas nozzle in? I used every hand available. I was fast.
That was it. I thought of myself as fast, a multitasker, someone who doesn’t waste a single millisecond. Countless times, people have told me they can’t keep up with me at work and that I never stop working. I agreed with that assessment. I was proud of it. And what I thought “Hurry the f*** up” meant was that I was slow and dragging my feet. What I had interpreted clashed with what I believed my identity to be. That’s why I felt irritated.
But am I always fast? Today, I was slow. Whether I wanted to be or not, I was. Sometimes my mom completes tasks faster. Sometimes others do things in a more effective manner than I do. So I am not always the fastest. And speed, like other identities, is defined through comparison. So, was I or could I ever be truly fast? True would mean something that is always that identity, regardless of the situation. And if I am not always fast, then how can I take issue with identifying with being slow or fast? With that, “Hurry the f*** up” lost all meaning. In fact, it seemed comical to me.
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