This week has been a slow go.

And what has made it even worse, it seems, is that I’ve been in a hurry – a hurry to get to my appointed places, and a hurry to get home. A hurry to cook supper, a hurry to get the dog walked. A hurry to get to bed, and a hurry to get up in the morning.

Most of the week was spent driving to the far side of Birmingham for a “not required” but “strongly encouraged” job training that was about as exciting as completing my medical history, signing loan paperwork, or filing my taxes, and just as dry as a plain saltine cracker eaten during a stomach virus.

The traffic was stop-and-go, with more stopping than going, complete with accompanying blood pressure spikes. It was especially hectic during lunch breaks. I felt as if I was in a live-action driving simulator game, and my opponents were going to earn stars and bonus points for taking me out in a demolition derby.

Construction zones along the interstate created bottlenecks, especially during rush hour. The wee hours, when the traffic thins to near nothing – that’s the time for road work.

A rescheduled graduation time meant we got out of training early the second day, but we were already being inundated with the traffic of the 400 or so graduates and their families scrambling for territory, like it was the Oklahoma land rush. It took fifteen minutes just to get out of the parking lot.

However, it was fortunate that the training was in the Birmingham area, because it made for an easy meet-up; I had learned that a very important product for the last two graduations in the school district where I work had not been received. I wheeled off my pathway home and sat in the homegoods area of a Target store, such a peaceful place to develop a Plan B, except the teenage and young adult employees began circulating frequently through the area that I had turned into my office. 

I took the hint, but if they don’t want folks sitting in their chairs, they don’t need to arrange them so invitingly.

So while I waited on the delivery of the delayed goods, I took my business elsewhere, just like in Pretty Woman: “Big mistake. Huge!”  I made use of my time and dropped a lot of money on graduation and wedding presents at a different store. 

The icing on the cake of my assorted postponements happened during what should have been a quick stop at a local Dollar General, but the lady ahead of me had a special request:

“Gimme some a them Marrl-burra Hunnerds.”

Her thick and husky voice, along with her puckered lips and leathered face, made me believe that the woman knew her way around a cigarette selection.

She also had a frozen pizza, a six-pack of Dr. Peppers, and a bottle of Jergens original lotion, almond-scented.

The gentleman at the counter motioned for a young clerk to bring the keys and open the case, and she proceeded to select the woman’s request, handing it to the fellow at the counter.

“Naw, it ain’t that one.”

The clerk’s hand moved to the right and selected another pack. “This one?”

“Naw, to the right.”

The clerk continued to the right, and she pointed to a silver pack that said, and I swear, “Marlboro 100,” but they were still the wrong kind. NOTE: I’m a non-smoker, and I’ve never smoked. I needed to do a little research, and I had enough time during this encounter to Google the various “100s.” 

Smokers, I figure you’ll know this, but it was news to me. The main difference between regular Marlboros and all the 100s is the 100s are longer, with more tobacco and a longer filter, which both give the user a smoother, longer experience with more enjoyable taste. 

“Naw, all the way to the right.”

The clerk who had gone as far right as she thought possible, shifted all the way to the left, and asked, “Is this right, or is it left?” before throwing her hands up and walking away. The gentleman at the counter, understanding the assignment, closed the left side of the case, and sliding the door on the right side, proceeded to select the correct pack.

At last, I thought, we can get on with this, but no, the woman’s pink purse, which was propped and leaning on the counter, dumped its contents onto the floor. 

A dime rolled underneath her buggy and landed at my feet. I picked it up and gave it back to her.

“Thank-ee,” she said, and she slowly gathered her bags and left the store.

Now, there’s an example. I don’t plan to take up cigarettes, and I’m doing my best to lay off the frozen pizza and Dr. Peppers. But the way she talked and the way she moved was so unhurried, so patient. She wasn’t just slow because of age. There was an ease in her attitude, one that comes with time, experience, wisdom, and maybe smoking one too many Hunnerds.

But she did not hurry. She did not rush. She did not act like she was in the least bit bothered.

I wish I could be more like that. I fly from here to there, as if I can gain more minutes in the day, but my method only makes me feel more frazzled and more stressed.

But how to slow down? 

I remembered there are a million different ways to get to Birmingham, if you choose to see them. The fastest way is not always the most efficient, and certainly not the most beautiful.

Maybe I needed to pick the Marlboro 100 way.

So on the last day of my travels, I took a longer route. I followed the backroads and enjoyed the sun-illuminated sprinkles falling from pockets of rainwater hidden among the leaves of large oak trees, leftover from the storms the night before.

I discovered a much quieter area of town, complete with its own little restaurants. I didn’t feel like I had a target on my back driving in the melee of the main drag.

There were no jam-ups going to and from the interstate.

It took more time, but I didn’t feel as rushed or as stressed.

And while this might be a bad analogy, and while I certainly hope it doesn’t make you want to light up, I’m thankful for that old woman and her cigarettes. Beauty and meaning can be found in most anything.

Sure helps if you have the eyes to see them.

It may be a slow go, but I think we can all get there.