I saw, in a Martha Stewart magazine (I know, that’s another whole new post already), a page with a picture of a seedling that had grown from the crack of a bean. Below that seedling was the word “Anticipation”.
Ah, yes, Spring is supposed to be anticipation (that was the March issue, I think). Waiting for the green to come back; planting and waiting for the tomatoes to realize themselves and for the butterflies and bees to come frolic in your vegetable plot.
But right now, anticipation for me is none. of. the. above. It is more like this:
ripping hair out; clawing at the heart; digging eyeballs out; scratching the armpits; hopping on one foot; clawing the walls; rolling eyeballs; opening and closing drawers, and doors very hard; staring at the calendar; counting the days; muttering; yelling at the day to end so the next can start so time can hustle faster; clenching fists; screaming visually; sighing; sighing again; making really unreasonable wishes; crying; sobbing; wailing; resisting retail therapy; pounding at heart, and repeating all the above.
No, nope. I am not good at waiting. Can you tell?