I usually try to incorporate some form of pop culture or history or any amount of relatable substance into my articles- you know, to impress my peers and make myself feel less narcissistic. But today, ladies and gentlemen, I want to talk about myself, starting with my birth.

I was born a baby.

Flash forward 19 years, and I am currently sitting before my laptop (and thus, inadvertently, before you) sipping cherry seltzer from a collegiate water bottle (Go Hawks! Go End-of-the-year Clearance event on all Hunter College merchandise!) and am sprawled across my banana print bed sheets. I am, by legal definition, an adult, and while I still can’t drink or buy cigarettes in certain states, for the most part, the responsibilities of being a fully grown human have been handed to me on a silver-plated platter. Taxes, bills, overdue library books, laundry, and even the dreaded laundry day have all become a part of my day-to-day life. But above all, the most important thing that has been placed upon me in my adulthood is patience.

Patience is a virtue. And it’s a virtue that we (well, most of us at least) grow into, becoming more and more able to tolerate withstanding frustrations: waits in line at the library printer, and people both in the workforce and in the life-force whose annoyance amounts to double the sum of frustrations as the aforementioned reasons-to-be-patient. Despite my many years of working with people in food service jobs, my patience has only developed at a surface level, and while the pangs of adulthood hit with vehement force, I can recognize that such is a facet of myself that hasn’t quite grown up yet.

Since I can remember I have always been an impatient person. Every time I bake a cake I set the timer for 5 minutes before the five-to-ten minute range they give you on the box for “How Long This Should Be Baking For: And No, Doria, We’re NOT MAKING THIS NUMBER UP.” Every time I go to work, my blood pressure spikes at the mere mention of the phrase “Can I try another flavor?” I was designed to withstand the pain and torture of frustrating people, but while my external appearance says “This is great!” my insides become tumultuous and frustrated. I hate doctor’s appointments, I hate slow service at restaurants (always leave a good tip though: it’s not the server's fault been there done that), and I literally cringe when someone doesn’t hear me the first time I say something. I am, in this way among others, distinctly human, and this particularly human quality also happens to show, within me personally, some amount of complete immaturity.

So I ask myself the question: How do I stop being such an impatient piece of, well, humanity? I have found myself as of late becoming very petty about minor issues within my household, particularly one pertaining to an air conditioner. If you’re like me and you’re incredibly impatient, you might find yourself becoming even more frustrated under inclement weather conditions. So naturally, when I get home from work at 1:30 to find that the apartment is as humid as the Amazon, despite constant reiteration of “When it’s hot turn the air conditioning on! I bought the air conditioner please don’t make my life harder than it needs to be!” I find my patience being tested to a point that I can’t physically withstand. It’s hard enough for me to sleep as it is (in part because — not even kidding — I become impatient with my sleep cycle and often become frantic in the hopes that this will somehow cause me to fall asleep), the 90-degree temperatures only make matters worse.

Judging by my two male roommates sprawled on the futon in their underoos, sweating and coughing, I can conclude that the air conditioner should be on (and that it’s not just mygood-old-fashioned American values shining through). So last night I sent out a furious message into our group chat, stomped into my room, flicked my lights on — Oh, you’re sleeping? WISH I COULD- and then tugged the cord out from its location beneath my roommate’s bed, the power-strip from underneath her body, and blasted it on the highest level of cool the machine could produce. But when I woke up the next morning, clammy, and it had been shut off once more, I learned a valuable lesson: being impatient gets you absolutely nowhere.

I shouldn’t have freaked out.

I freaked out.

And did anything work out in my favor?

No, because I still had to take two ZzzQuil to fall asleep on account of my boiling rage and tensed muscles on the brink of spasm.

But of course, my impatience won against my logic and critical thinking, and of course, I found myself having taken a big loss. So as I sit here before you today, in my pajamas drinking fizzy water on banana print bed sheets, I can admit in all honesty that I am not an adult. I have not yet hit the point of zen that adults typically reach that allows them to deal with their emotions in a rational and formulated manner. I am frustrated often and pushed to the brink of insanity far too frequently and with far too great of ease. But I will learn, and as I experience more I will grow more and become more patient, and perhaps more tolerant of 90 degree sleeping temperatures.