Waiting for That Godot Guy

I hate waiting.  Hate it with the passion of ten thousand white-hot suns.  I understand that sometimes I do have to wait, that that is part of life.  I get it.  I know that I have to do my time waiting, on occasion. I am not talking about the waiting for Christmas or waiting for my son to dress himself so we can leave the house.    

I especially hate sitting around waiting for someone to make a decision.  

I usually get along with everyone at work.  I am an easygoing sort, and when the group wants to go out to eat,  I can find something to eat, no matter where we go. I'm adaptable, and not a picky eater. But nobody ever seems interested in making a decision.

Me:  "Where do you want to go?"

"I don't know."

Me: "What are you hungry for?"

"I don't know."

Me: "How about this place?"

"Ew. Not that place!"

Me:  "This one?"

"They have bad service."

Me: "That one?"

"You want food poisoning?" 

Me: "Well? Just decide on a place. "

"I just don't know."

Arrrghh!  

I feel as though I am waiting for that Godot guy.  It's almost as if some people want someone else to make decisions about the very food they eat.  Then they can blame it on me, if things don't work out.  They've handed responsibility for the whole thing to me. I have enough trouble making decisions for myself.  Also, someone else's lunchtime choice might be to a new place that I've never been.  That might be the best place ever, with the most delicious food we've ever had, but nobody will make a decision!


Food poisoning starts to look like a better option than continuing the conversation.  By that point, I am usually so hungry that I don't care.  I make a decision, and I just go.   Sometimes people come with me.  Occasionally, we all go separate ways and hit the drive thru, then meet back up somewhere for lunch. Because our lunches together are not about what we eat, after all that.  

Waiting for Godot's Cousin Bob

 



I hate waiting. 

I especially hate waiting in line for anything, because I can't help but think of all the things that I could be doing instead of standing in line.  After all, the laundry doesn't wash itself.  

Even if I am able to use my smartypants phone to take care of some items on my list, I still begrudge standing in line.  I feel like I'm in that play Waiting for Godot.

If I have to stand in a line, that line had better be a briskly moving one, otherwise the poor souls ahead of me are going to be forced to listen to my loud sighs and low decibel muttering. I have good reason to mutter.

When I have to stand in line, my feet inevitably start whining.  It's as if they are yelling "Are we there yet?" at me, only their language is a throbbing, swelling sort of pain.  Occasionally they will add a cramp in there, and sometimes I feel as though I have bruised the bottoms of my feet from standing. 

After the feet start with the whining, the knees get cranky.  My right knee will start pulsing with a sharp stab of pain as I shuffle from foot to foot to keep up my circulation.  The left knee just swells up to show its displeasure.

The hips never want to be left out of any griping, so they start flaring with tingling and pins and needles as I try to stretch out my aching Achilles.  Then the lower back starts screaming at me about how great sitting down would be.  I start clenching my jaw at the various pains. 

My upper back, which has been hunched a bit because of my irritation, starts to feel tight, and that persnickety-ness travels all the way up my neck to join the tension caused by my clenching jaw.  This super tsunami of pain travels over my skull to a spot above my right eye, where it causes a pounding tension headache. 

And people wonder why I'm so grouchy...



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