Your Time is More Important Than Mine

My time is more important than yours.

This is the message the woman at the swimming pool was sending me when she left all of her belongings in one of the changing rooms for the duration of her child’s swimming lesson.

Nobody else could use the room, even if they did get there first with a shivering 4-year old boy dripping behind them.  I was more than happy to strip my son down in the corridor and dry his little feet on the mucky changing room floor, while he looked on enviably at the empty, yet ‘claimed’ cubicle right in front of us.

Really, I was; because her time is obviously more important than mine.

Same for the lady who pushed in front of me in the supermarket queue after I had loaded the belt with our weekly shop, because she “only has 3 items”.  You go for it lady, because your time is obviously more important than mine as well.

As for the driver in the silver BMW who stole my right of way because he was in a hurry to get somewhere, no problem! I mean, I nearly crashed into the side of him, which would have held us both up for a lot longer, if not forever, but I braked hard and gave way because he thinks his time is more important too.

And, the telephone engineer who asked me to wait in for him between the hours of 8am-1pm, but then called at 4pm to ask where I was. I do not mind in the slightest that I had to abandon my son’s after-school playdate to come home and let you in, when a simple phone call 3-hours earlier would have given me ample notice to relocate everyone/change the time/reschedule.

My husband, to who some days the burden of simply reaching into his bag to retrieve his house keys is too much to bear, so he knocks on the door instead.  I will stop what I am doing to let him in.  I will get out of the shower.  I will abandon boiling water on the hob.  I will untangle myself from our 4-year old, who insists on sitting on me while he watches Despicable Me 2.  In the same time it would take for him to take out his keys, open the door, take off his coat, and sink into his favourite armchair.

The call centre that calls me at 3pm every single day to ask if I have been injured or in an accident, despite me reassuring them I have not and that they can really stop worrying about me now.

To these people, I must look like I have all the time in the world.

Or maybe they are just too busy being too busy to notice anything else at all.


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