Urgency is something I was never good at. I never knew how to pace myself- always going too fast or too slow. I'm never in the middle, never average. I'm always "too much, too little".
When my phone alarm woke me up, it had been ringing for thirty minutes. After checking the time, though, I decided I was okay to lay in bed for an hour. (Which turned into an hour and a half). I had a shift in two hours at my local Wendy's. Right then, I was too slow.
I was late for work, with my apron barely tied to my back as I walked to the register. My shift starts at one of the busiest hours, three in the afternoon. A customer and his three kids came up to my register, asking for a few sandwiches. I remember him asking for no tomatoes, but I was putting in the order too clumsily. Right then, I was too fast.
Instances where I can pace myself, go at a speed that's good for me are limited. I recall a couple of times when my father would shake my shoulders, "calm down!" or "speed up!". Have a sense of urgency, but know that not everything is urgent.
"Hey, uh, sir, my chicken sandwich came with tomatoes."
I was too slow getting a new sandwich back to him.
After a while, I had lunch break (basically dinner break) and just had some fries. I never was a hungry person, always able to live off of limited foods. My father was concerned when I was younger, but we never had the funds to let me see the doctor. I did, as an adult, and I'm perfectly healthy with my absurd diet.
Packing up my trash with a now full trash bag in the break room, I go to take it out to the dumpster in the back.
"Thank you, Oliver, I'll change the bag," Sarah, my co-worker, said cheerfully like we hadn't worked our butts off this shift.
"Yeah. Who else would do it? No one really pulls their weight here."
"What do you expect from a Wendy's, dude?" I heard her call to me as I exited from the back door. I scoffed. They're getting paid, at least maybe- work for it?
The smell hit me as soon as I opened the dumpster, but it never bothered me as much as Sarah. She would gag and threaten to throw up on me if I didn't hurry and close the dump. The smell of trash never bothered me, but I guess it was supposed to.
I closed the dumpster too fast, and my fingers were nearly crushed by the lid. I recoiled, cradling my poor fingers to my chest. Oh, the pain! The fingertips only grazed the rusty metal and didn't do any harm, but my adrenaline told me I had died.
Screw the dumpster. Its stupid, anyway.
Going inside, I washed my hands and up my forearms, suiting back up in my apron, hat, and my positive attitude.
Of course, the water had spilled all over my work shirt, though. Less-than-positive attitude.
