FOR GOD'S SAKE, LAND THE PLANE.

"Land the plane."

It's a phrase I use when I want someone to get to the point. I'm not sure if I heard it somewhere, or if I invented it, but it's always there, ready to pounce like a panther. Most of the time I don't say it out loud, I'm just thinking it when someone in a conversation is going on and on and on and on. AND ON.

I have a mind that races like Secretariat on crack, I'm usually thinking fourteen steps ahead of the other person, with an internal, mental dialogue that is rapid-fire-Aaron Sorkin-esque. It's not very Southern Belle of me, being from Tennessee and all, but there it is. I'm a tornado wrapped in a hurricane moving at the speed of light. And nothing frustrates me more than looooooong stories told by slow-tongued sloth-people.

(Yes, that's me.)

Don't get me wrong, I'm not proud of this. It's a major character flaw and I spend a lot of time masking it. But those who know me know I'm guilty. I've been this way since I was born. Just ask my sweet cousin Keith, who spent hours of time patiently constructing his fab Lincoln Log houses on Granny's living room floor, only to have his whirlwind Sasquatch cousin come barreling through on roller skates, knocking his Andrew Lloyd Wright creations into a pile of rubble. Poor guy.

I have a friend and colleague who is one of the sloth-humans. Let's call him/her Pat, for the sake of non-identification. Pat could very well be the product of the divine mating of two long-winded writers, Don McClean (American Pie) and John Wesley (Methodist hymn-writer). Pat takes eighteen thousand thoughtful verses to say what could be said in two. Pat's emails make the U.S. Constitution look like TrumpTweets, with words so flowery I can smell them through my computer screen. Pat loves words, Pat loves the sound of Pat's own voice, and Pat is not afraid to take as long as necessary to communicate every detail of every thought of every teeny-weeny part of every atom on the speck on the flea on the tail on the frog on the bump on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

I adore Pat, but Pat's writing drives me nuts. From the moment I open an email or text from Pat, I find myself frantically searching for the point, like trying to find the eject button before my fighter jet crashes and burns. Please Pat, for God's sake, land the plane.

But it's not Pat's fault, nor Pat's problem. It's mine.

I'm the impatient one. I'm in the wrong. I'm the one who always feels like I'm racing against the clock. I blame my parents, because of course, everything that's wrong with me is entirely their fault, and I have no responsibility in the development of my own character. My family began playing very competitive games with me as soon as I could sit up and "go fish". Once, in a heated game of Old Maid at our kitchen table in Memphis, Tennessee, I physically ate the Old Maid card when I was 4 years old to keep from losing the game to my mother and grandmother. (Not kidding). Needless to say I was not a laid-back child. Whenever I played anything and lost, I would say, "I came in third". Never mind that there were only three people playing and I came in last.

Maybe you're a sloth-human, and people like me are totally offensive to you. I'm sure that the "plane-landers" of the world drive others crazy much more than the sloth-humans do.

If you're a sloth-speaker, sloth-writer, or slothy-thinker, I offer you my heartfelt apology. I wish I were more like you, patient, eloquent, Shakespearean, comforting others with your words and phrases like the balm of Gilead. But try as I might, I'm just not that girl.

If we ever cross paths and I get a little squirmy during our conversation, please know I'm trying. It's not you, it's me.

My heart is with you, and the good angel in me is smiling and nodding, appearing engaged.

But my mind is screaming in silence, "In the name of all that is holy, please LAND THE PLANE."