The Lost Art of Lingering

One evening last week, my husband needed to meet with someone at our house. Because the courteous and professional nature of the meeting clashed with the loud and boisterous nature of our daughters, Keith and I decided beforehand that the girls and I would take off.

It was very strange to find myself the owner of a chunk of time to kill. There’s always somewhere we have to be, always a deadline, and we’re always running five minutes late. Most of the time I remind myself of Seargent Carter on the old TV show Gomer Pyle, always yelling “Move it! Move it! Move it!"

This evening though, I found myself moving at a much more relaxed pace. We spent an hour at the library, and could easily have stayed twice as long but had to leave because they were closing. Our library has terrible hours - they close at 5:30 on Fridays and Saturdays and aren't open at all on Sundays.

Then we went out to eat. Absurdly, we ate fast food, even though we really had time for a better meal . I actually caught myself almost telling the girls to hurry and finish their food. (I'm always the first one finished). But then I realized there was no reason they should be in a hurry, which caused me to wonder -- is this how it is every time we eat? Am I so in the habit of rushing through meals that I almost did it this time when I really didn't need to?

After dinner, we went to an ice cream store downtown. With temperatures in the 20's and blustery winds, ice cream sounded like torture to me, so I had a cup of White Chocolate Mocha and let the girls take their time eating ....they don't share my distaste for ice cream in winter.

We stopped at my parents' on the way home and hung out for a while. The whole pace of the evening was just unusually laid-back and wonderful. I had looked forward to an evening out with the girls, and I knew we would have fun, but the awareness of lingering with nowhere else to be, once I became accustomed to it, was an absolutely unexpected gift.