Honestly

The sky is cerulean. Crisp, clear, and cloudless. It’s nearly 10am, and I’m waiting. Again. 

It’s always been like this: I’m ready to go—walk, run, jump in the car, tackle errands—but I wait. And wait. And wait some more. Until he’s finally ready. 

Roger is slow; really slow. One could think he hails from a long line of tortoises. He has a schedule for anything and everything, but is just not fast enough. For my liking anyway. 

One time we were packing for a day trip, and I was ready to go the moment he suggested it. To no surprise, Roger took his precious time sorting his clothes, checking and rechecking supplies, and writing his lists. My patience has been tested and tried over the years, honestly.

Another time we were supposed to take the day and spend time at the park, but with the forecast of potential rain, Roger wanted to wait it out a bit, ensure he had necessary supplies in case it did actually rain, and formulate a backup plan. Suffice to say, we didn’t do anything that day. 

Linda is a bit faster. Roger and Linda have been married for nearly 28 years, and she’s more familiar with his speedometer than I’ve had the displeasure of being. She’s his gas pedal, all things considered. When Linda and I run errands, it’s speedy, efficient, and involves zero waiting. My kind of waiting.

Today for instance, Roger, Linda, and I are headed to the beach. Sun, sand, surf, and sleeping; I’m thrilled. And yet here I sit, the kitchen table acting as my anchor in the midst of this sea of waiting. 

“Honey, did you pack sunscreen?” Roger asks, holding his little blue notebook (the source of his trip-lists, and ultimately the source of my disdain). 

“Yes, Rog, it’s in the cooler,” Linda calls from the dining room. 

I watch Roger frown at this. “Why on earth would she put it in the cooler?” he mutters, making his way to the cooler. He navigates around the beach chairs and umbrellas scattered haphazardly around the dining room.

“Did you make sure we have the beach tags?” Linda inquires, stepping into the dining room. Roger is rooting around in the cooler, looking for the sunscreen, and comes up with a blue lotion bottle.

Linda is now leaning against the doorframe, watching Roger with a small smile. He looks up at her, a confused look crowding his eyes. “Oh, now where did I put those tags?” He wonders aloud, scratching his head with his opposite hand. Linda smiles at him and crosses her arms. 

I cannot understand this woman’s patience, honestly. She has loved him and his turtle-ways for years. I have yet to see his single speed frustrate her. She almost seems to enjoy it.

I sigh and watch Linda walk toward Roger and thread her arms around his neck. “Are you excited for the beach?” She asks, tilting her head. 

Roger smiles. I’m a sucker for his smile, I’ll admit. “You know I love the beach, Linny. I’m sorry it’s taking me a while to get things together.” 

Linda shakes her head and plants a kiss on his forehead. “We get there when we get there—isn’t that what I always say?” Roger nods in agreement. I sigh loudly, pleased by their love, but anxious to get a move on. I mean honestly. 

*

When we finally get there, the beach is crowded. Being that it’s nearly 1:00pm, this doesn’t surprise me. I find a spot for us, and when I glance back, I see Roger and Linda slowly making their way over the sand. Thoughtfully, carefully, without a care in the world. Linda helps Roger, and Roger smiles appreciatively. I huff loudly, pleased by their adorable-ness, but desperate to get in the waves.

Looking toward the ocean I notice how the sky meets the horizon with a nearly indistinguishable color contrast. The waves are rough—just how I like them—and the tide is out. I’m anxious to get in the water, but know I have to wait for Roger and Linda first.

When they finally reach the spot I’ve selected, they are careful to set up their umbrellas, cooler, and beach chairs just the way they prefer: a semicircle facing the ocean, complete with a cooler of snacks and drinks in the middle. They’ve even brought my special tent along; I love to relax in the shade after a nice long swim.

For a while they enjoy the shade, and then decide to make their way down to the shore. Finally. 

I jump and splash in the waves as the surf pounds the beach; Roger and Linda simply take in the sights, holding hands and enjoying the sight of me making a fool of myself. When I’m really excited I let my tongue loll out of my mouth; this is such a time.

After a while of romping in the waves—or of my romping in the waves—we make it back to our spot and I stretch out in my tent. Roger and Linda smile lazily at each other, unwrapping bologna sandwiches and drinking root beer. Roger, of course, is a slow and cautious eater. Linda finishes her meals at least twenty minutes before Roger does, but quietly sits and talks as Roger continues to eat. I’m usually done in about 45 seconds. 

As the day begins to wind down, and the beach grows quieter, I know it’s time for mine and Roger’s special walk.

I shakily stand up, my joints and knees not what they used to be, honestly.

“Come here, old girl,” Roger coos, leaning down at the waist to pet my head. 

Linda smiles and lifts me up. “Oh, watch that hip, Linda, it’s been a little sore lately,” I instruct. She pretends to understand what I’m saying and places me on Roger’s lap.

Linda scratches my ear and pats my back. “She’s really slowing down, huh?” Linda assesses. Roger rubs that special spot between my ears, immediately relaxing me, and I curl my head between paws. 

“No, she’s doing okay. Slowing down isn’t so bad,” Roger answers. “We’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” Roger says, and I hear him and Linda kiss.

Soon I’m lulled to sleep by the whirring of his electric wheelchair and the pounding of waves as we make our way down the shoreline. Over time, I think I’ve come to realize that slow is better. Honestly.