I’m always in the longest lines.

All the time, everywhere I go. It’s almost comical, like a played out comedy sketch where the punch line never changes. I have to force myself to laugh because it doesn’t matter which lane or line I choose, the one I pick will inevitably be the longest or have some issue with it. Ask Mrs. Whatever—she’ll tell you. Or better yet, ask Batman about our trip to Disney last year when there was an issue with the person before us EVERY WHERE we went.

(Just a few examples)

Getting into the park, a lady handed over the wrong tickets and spent five minutes searching her backpack for the right ones. Did the dude ask her to get out of line while she looked for them? Nope. Batman and I (and everyone else behind us) had to wait. Or, how about when we reached the front of the Rocking Rollercoaster at MGM, and the family in front of us decided to have a commotion because their six year old didn’t want to get on the ride and a staff member had to come over and settle the TEN minute dispute that really wasn’t necessary. And then, after waiting patiently for twenty minutes at the President’s Hall eatery when the out of towners in front of us wanted a run-down of what a port-o-bell-o was and if that wasn’t enough, asked for descriptions of half the other super obvious American items. (Dude, they have pictures). I turned to Batman and he just shook his head because he knew—like I did—that it’s my fault.

I’m the bad luck.

Now, when I say bad luck, I mean this particular slice of the could-be craptastic life that involves anything going to shit. No one’s falling into pot holes around me or breaking devices or losing things (that I know of) so I thank my lucky star for that, but, if you’re with me—anywhere—be prepared to wait a while.

At a friend’s wedding in 2011, when Batman and the groom drove from the groom’s apartment to the hotel where all the bachelorette’s were recovering, I was quoted a drive time of five minutes. Ten tops. Of course the second I got into the car (along with the other gals) it skyrocketed to about a forty-five minute commute. Batman kept muttering, “it’s because you’re in the car.” God bless him for not leaving me when everything is slowed down to a point of utter screamage. It even happens when we’re shopping. Registers break when we get to them or they run out of paper or ink, or it’s time for that someone’s break. It’s fast and smooth for everyone else but when I approach, everything seems to slow to a halt.

So, why am I telling you all this?

Because I believe in a balance. A great, grand balance that keeps all things in check. I believe my bad luck isn’t bad luck at all, but a reminder to slow down.

I go too fast. With everything. Sure, the four cups of coffee pumping through my system don’t help, but it’s my nature to move quickly. It always has been. I speak fast because one idea sparks another and another and I start out talking about why I never clean my car and end up whining that Batman would leave me in the Zombie apocalypse. In a span of TWO minutes. People just look at me, trying to make a bridge of how I started at point A and ended up all the way over here in what-the-fuck town. I just go quickly. And I’ve always been drawn to activities that let me do this.

Batman will roll his eyes when I tell you I was the Speed champion in my eighth grade homeroom class (the card came, not the drug) because it had to deal with how fast you can put the cards down. I’m like the freaking lightning queen *flips hair proudly* and same with the Rubics cube. I can do a side in thirty seconds (not the whole thing – don’t get excited) because it’s easier to move through it automatically then to stop and think what to do next. People wonder how I’m so witty? I say the first thing that comes to mind, which is always there the second before someone stops speaking. That’s just how things are for me.

But ask me to slow and you might as well see a long line of drool at the corner of my mouth, because nothing makes sense if it’s not going in fast motion. I can’t explain it. It’s just how I work. So it’s only fitting that while I’m running on Tasmanian speed, I should be made to wait. To slow down. To take a breath every now and again. Believe me, it took a long time to figure this out. I just couldn’t understand why I was always made to wait when it was easier for everyone else. But I understand now.

It’s not bad luck. It’s a balance—a balance I need.

Sure, it’s still frustrating when I’m trying to get into the damn Disney Park, but I take it as a reminder to slow down and breathe. Just breathe. Batman understands this, but I still think he wants me out of his car when he’s driving to pick up food.

Men are so much grouchier when they’re hungry.