Alan S. Oser

Engraved on my memory is the sight of my mother, at the age of 80, slipping and falling on the ice.

She was hurrying in freezing weather from her front door to the garage. “Don’t run!” I cried. As if these words were a signal, she fell hard. Then, with my assistance, she rose slowly.

Luckily my mother recovered, though not quickly. Slips and falls often usher in a period of permanent decline for old people. And now that I have entered that vulnerable period myself, I have turned philosophical on the causes of accidents like my mother’s, and more specifically on the subject of hurry, and its psychological partner, impatience. Hurry and impatience are often the cause of misfortune, physical and otherwise. And sometimes they are almost inexplicable.

Why was my mother in such a hurry to open the garage door? She would not have lost much time if she had carefully walked those 16 feet. Why am I so impatient to cross a street before the light turns in my favor? I could just as well relax and wait.

On the other hand, I find I am in no rush to finish this essay, or any other task I undertake these days that involves thought. It’s those things that we think we can do thoughtlessly, like opening a garage door, that we hurry unnecessarily to complete.

There is another kind of impatience that I know well. It is what I call competitive hurry: the rush to overcome a real or imaginary foe by getting to the finish line sooner. Usually I find no sense of victory or pleasure in success in getting there first, only defeat in failing. It is only a matter of time before this attitude leads to a broken hip.

How did I get this way! I blame Max Lowenthal.

Max was a copy editor on the foreign desk of The New York Times when I arrived there in 1962. In those days pencils were still in use, and so were paste pots. The copy editor not only changed words, he also changed the order of paragraphs. Nowadays this is done by pressing buttons on a computer, but at that time the editor would slice pages with his metal ruler, and paste paragraphs together again in a different order by using his paste pot and brush.

Possibly there was a man alive who could do this as fast as Max Lowenthal, but I never met him. Max could also edit a reporter’s copy faster than anyone I ever saw. This involved improving the clarity and usually shortening the wording to rid it of verbosity, while simultaneously making the copy obey all the arcane rules of New York Times style. Max wrote too rapidly in a scrawl, and the only linotype operator who could read it easily was an elderly Dutchman named Gus. So Gus was permanently assigned to be Max’s typesetter when the production process was nearing a deadline.

Only a fool would try to match Max’s editing speed, and I was that fool. This led me to some grievous errors, the editing equivalent of slip and fall. But did I learn my lesson? Yes I did! I learned to edit more slowly and carefully, although it took an effort at self-restraint. It was an effort worth making, and it preserved my employment.

Unfortunately, the lesson learned as an editor did not carry over into other activities of life. I am in such a rush to complete unpleasant tasks that I abandon them prematurely when they resist hasty completion. If the remote control inexplicably fails to respond submissively when I try to change television channels, I make only a brief and feeble try to correct the situation before giving up in despair and returning to the radio.

When the choice is between sticking to a difficult domestic task in the faint hope of eventual success, or dropping it to head off exasperation, my course is clear. It is called “chickening out,” and it does not promote cordial marital relations.

This is by no means the only aspect of marital relations in which the exercise of patience is the approach of choice. I recommend it when the spouse conducts an interminable telephone conversation, or when she is still dressing or combing her hair at the time when couples with a dinner invitation ought to be leaving home if they plan to arrive at their host’s doorstep on speaking terms. Impatience and anxiety go hand in hand to promote marital friction.

I am not a total failure in the battle against impatience and its dire consequences. When the doors of a crowded subway train open, I step aside to allow passengers out before I step in. “After you,” I say politely, lifting my cap and bowing slightly, to allow another to enter ahead of me. Once inside, I do not trample elderly women in my eagerness to seize possession of the sole empty seat. I mumble “Excuse me” to left and right as I glide through the train. I am a man of courtesy.

On the other hand, I have no patience with waiting on line. Impatience twists my gut while the lady ahead of me on the supermarket checkout line chats with the clerk about her dating problems while my lemon sherbet melts. It lifts my blood pressure to wait on line for movie tickets or to check in at the airport or to mail a package at the post office. Why is the person ahead of me always purchasing a money order? Why won’t that red light turn green so I can cross the street?

Why is that lady sitting opposite me at the bridge table taking so long to respond to my opening bid of one club? Bid anything, lady. I won’t bite. I will forgive any bid, however ridiculous, if only you won’t keep us all waiting so long. Who assigned this partner to me? My fingernails grow faster than she bids. God only knows how long it would take her to misplay a hand. To prevent that, I will misbid in order to misplay the hand myself.

I know my limits. Even if the calming hand of patience swoops down upon me one day like a gift from heaven, I will not play bridge with that woman again. I may have a word or two to say to the woman in front of me on the supermarket line who is gabbing with the checkout lady while I wait my turn, my temper percolating. It may not boil over, however. I will struggle to keep calm, and be patient. Calm and patience go hand in hand.

People with a calm temper will probably not slip on the ice.