It’s raining outside on the first day of September, and Evelyn is watching The Grinch while I write. We finally moved on from The Adventures of Ichabod Crane, although apparently we went directly from Halloween to Christmas without acknowledging the existence of fall. Streaming has given her unlimited choices and absolutely no reason to wait for the appropriate season.
The stores aren’t helping. Summer clearance started while we were still very much in summer, Halloween appeared sometime in July, and Sam’s Club had already moved on to the next holiday while the rest of us were still sweating. Christmas will be everywhere soon, and we’ll spend months preparing for one day before walking outside to seventy-five-degree weather and remembering it’s still September.
I do appreciate the Mariah Carey countdown to Christmas because, if nothing else, she makes us wait. In a world where retailers want us planning the next holiday before we’ve finished the current one, Mariah has apparently become our last line of defense. She will let us know when it’s time.
I started thinking about all of this after asking myself what elder Millennials experienced that would confuse younger generations. MapQuest, dial-up internet, calling someone’s house and having to speak to a parent, low-rise jeans and leaving home without anyone being able to track us were the obvious answers. Although I don’t know that we necessarily “survived” all of those things. Low-rise jeans may be the exception.
My mother always held on to clothes because she said fashion eventually comes back around, and she wasn’t wrong. The things now considered vintage are suspiciously similar to things that could probably still be found in the back of my closet. There’s nothing quite like watching an entire generation discover an outfit you already wore badly the first time.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized the biggest difference wasn’t the technology or fashion. It was the waiting. We used to wait for things because there wasn’t another option.
If someone called while we weren’t home, they waited. If we had an answering machine, they could leave a message that the entire house might hear unless the machine was hidden in our parents’ bedroom for screening purposes. Otherwise, they called back later. There wasn’t an expectation that we would be reachable simply because someone wanted to reach us.
I didn’t get my first cell phone until I was eighteen and could pay for it myself. Even then, angry texting required commitment. Nothing dissipated rage quite like typing an entire message in T9, making a mistake and realizing you had to back up through half the sentence. By the time you repaired the damage, you were either calm or too tired to continue the argument. Conflict resolution through technological inconvenience.
Entertainment required waiting too. We waited for movies to come on television, songs to play on the radio and commercials to end. Movie previews gave us enough information to become interested without showing us the entire plot, three major jokes and the ending. Now I occasionally finish a trailer feeling like I’ve already seen the movie and should receive credit for watching it.
Evelyn sometimes loses her mind over a quick commercial because she isn’t used to having her entertainment interrupted. She’s getting better about it, but waiting thirty seconds when you’re four may feel like serving a short prison sentence. Meanwhile, I use commercial breaks to finish a chore or do a few exercises because apparently I’ve reached the age when I can’t even wait without trying to improve something.
Holidays felt different when we had to wait for them too. Seasons generally stayed where they belonged on the calendar, and gifts weren’t attached to every possible occasion. Now everything has a limited-edition version. It’s the same snack in a different-colored package, but apparently I need it because there’s a pumpkin on it.
Buying Christmas gifts early helps spread out the expense, so I understand the appeal. But being surrounded by Christmas for four months also takes something away from the anticipation. We’re always being encouraged to reach into the next season instead of noticing the one we’re standing in. By the time snow arrives and we’re living in Satan’s butthole of winter, we’ll be wishing for spring. Then summer will arrive and the stores will tell us it’s time to buy pumpkins again.
I wonder if that’s part of why time feels like it moves so quickly now. We’re rarely allowed to be where we are. There is always something coming next, and there is always a product available to help us prepare for it.
That doesn’t mean I want to give up modern convenience. Curbside pickup has made my life easier. I can make a list, order what we need and leave without wandering through the store buying things I didn’t know existed five minutes earlier. I enjoy going, getting and getting back home. Some conveniences give me time instead of taking it.
The trouble is that convenience also created the expectation of immediate access. Messages arrive wherever we are. Everyone can see whether they were delivered and sometimes whether we’ve read them. The world didn’t just become easier to reach. We did too.
When I asked myself when being available became the default, the answer was annoyingly simple: when I made myself available.
All of my girls know I’m usually the first person to call. I’m grateful they trust me with that role, but I’m beginning to understand that being available to the people I love doesn’t mean responding to everything the moment it appears. That’s a hard habit to break when usefulness has become part of how you love people.
Maybe that’s why I’ve been craving activities that make my phone less relevant. Puzzles, quiet drives and cleaning all give my mind somewhere else to go. Cleaning occasionally becomes rage cleaning after I discover the girls have half-assed their chores, but movement is movement.
I have a ridiculous number of puzzles, especially from the Magic Puzzle Company. The only problem is that I also have a toddler and cats, so there is no surface in this house where an unfinished puzzle can safely exist. I’m considering turning the sunroom into a puzzle space this winter. Somewhere I can use my brain for something that doesn’t require solving another person’s problem—and possibly close a door.
I don’t actually miss dial-up internet, busy signals or standing beside a radio waiting to record a song only to have the DJ talk over the opening. I miss the built-in pauses. I miss the space between someone wanting something and being able to reach me. I miss when a question could wait until we arrived home, a holiday could wait for its season and boredom was allowed to exist long enough to become imagination.
I don’t want to return to a life where everything was harder simply for the character development. I’m keeping curbside pickup, streaming and the ability to find the nearest coffee shop without unfolding a map across the steering wheel. I’d just like to stop treating every interruption as though it deserves immediate access to me.
Maybe the answer isn’t rejecting convenience. Maybe it’s remembering that availability is still something I’m allowed to choose. Every message doesn’t need an immediate response, and every season doesn’t need to be rushed so we can prepare for the next one.
Some things can wait.
Apparently, even Christmas.
Continue the Conversation
Continue the conversation
If today’s essay felt like someone put words to something you’ve been carrying, I think you’ll find a little more of yourself in The Unguided Woman.
It’s not a roadmap. It’s an honest conversation about perimenopause, identity, grief, and finding your footing again when life feels unfamiliar.
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