I was with her earlier today, at my day job - the REAL one. She's ten years old, belongs to a customer. Her name is Maya. We were discussing the virtue of patience.
"It's my birthday in 8 months, 2 weeks and 3 days," she said in between serious licks of a cherry blow pop.
I was immediately impressed with her mathematical ability.
"I can't wait," she added. "Then I can get my ears pierced."
So 11 had its understandable appeal. The 8 months, 2 weeks and 3 days did not. Also understandable.
"That's cool," I told her. "It'll be here before you know it."
"Not true," she countered, "It's like a million, trillion months from now."
I was reminded then of her true age and her less than stellar math prowess.
Yet, I get it. When we're waiting for something to happen, something we want so badly, suddenly regular time morphs into dog years. One equals seven. It's the math of the impatient.
I'm waiting too. For a yes. For a contract. For a validation. For Life - Part Two to commence.
It's dog years - big time.
Tom Petty said it best. It's the hardest part. The waiting.
Maya and I couldn't agree more.