A man literally ran over my ankle with his rolling golf bag in the airport yesterday. Am I fucking invisible?
I fell on his luggage, which sadly, didn't slow him down. He just shook me off like I was a dog humping his leg.
Can we all just calm the hell down? This may be news, but we're not running a race. There are no tiny leprechauns waiting for us with a pot of gold if we're the first to arrive at the Arby's drive-thru.
I've seen women sprinting in their heels after being released from the city bus like they're in a triathalon. I call them, "Life Racers". They're racing all the time, but have no idea why.
The race doesn't stop when they get in their cars, either. They're slugging down coffee and screaming into their cellphones like maniacs. "What do you mean Johnny didn't ace his fucking spelling test! We practiced three times this morning!"
I have to assume that a Life Racer's sex life goes something like this: "Honey, it's been 15 minutes, if you're not going for touchdown soon, it's over. I have 5 loads of laundry waiting for me."
So here's the challege to you Life Racers out there. Instead of always looking at what's next, try to enjoy what's now. Even if it takes 20 minutes. Trust me, the laundry will still be there.