I grew up thinking that my father was the most impatient man in the world.

This realization formed when I was designated flashlight-holder for his constant home and car repairs. God forbid that I should not be able to get light to bend the time-space continuum and onto the part of the engine block where he wanted it, usually below where he had jammed his head, blocking the light.

(Questions about why my brother was never involved in these repairs remain unacknowledged to this day.)

I blow my dad shit for this impatience, but the lessons I learned about fixing things were invaluable.

But go back in time and try to explain this to eight-year-old Shawn.

My dad could repeat a command in a panicked voice 43 times in four seconds.

“NotthatwaynothatwaynotwaynotthatwayNOTTHATWAY!”

“TurnitoffturnitoffturnitoffturnitoffturnitoffTURNITOFF!!!”

It was amazing. He reprimand me so fast it was just a sonic blur.  Much to the delight of my son, I adapted this skill as a father. I got the chance to look at a boy looking back at me with a blank expression while a carelessly tilted can of lawn mower gasoline glugged death onto a swath of green grass.

“Ian! Watchthenozzlewatchthenozzlewatchthenozzlewatchthenozzle… Watch IT!”

I got to see an echo of my childhood self through my father’s eyes; the look of clueless, slow motion indifference. “Whuuuuuut [glug glug glug] issssss heeeeeee [glug glug glug] tallllllking aboooooooooout?”

Yes, it’s official. My dad became laid back in his later years and left me to carry the mantle of The Most Impatient Man in the World.™  Woot.

My work laptop takes seventeen minutes to boot, log on through three security checks, load all the corporate bloat spyware, and all of the required auto-booting corporate standard communications programs; IM and email.  After the laptop has done all that, if I ask nice, I might be able to start telling it what I want it to do for me.

Seventeen minutes.  Seventeen fucking minutes. How do I know it takes seventeen minutes? Because cataloging such annoyances is something that The Most Impatient Man in the World™ does all the time. It’s a delight to get to work at ten minutes before eight, boot my laptop, and eventually find that I’m seven minutes late for a meeting that started while I was sipping coffee and surreptitiously scratching my balls under the desk. Just lovely. I was early to work and yet I’m still late to work because I work for an Internet backbone provider who would rather sell the bandwidth to customers than waste it on the employees.

Lately though, there’s something more sinister at play. My iPhone goes through cycles where I can tap a button six times and nothing happens, usually when I’m driving and every distracted second is an opportunity to die. Fucking phone can’t just accept that I’m fingering that imaginary little square for a reason. It knows better.

More and more, I’m clicking links on my laptop that just ignore me until I click them four times. A frequent refrain from Crazy Shawn sitting at his desk: “WHAT? WHAT THE… GODDAMIT! WHAT!?! AM I JUST NOT CLICKING WITH ENOUGH SINCERITY FOR YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT???”

Right-clicking also triggers this frustration.  It takes four attempts. Or maybe it only took one click with a six second delay, but as far as I know it was the fourth right-click attempt.

I should Vine this so you know I’m not exaggerating: From the time I right-click an image and select “Save As” until the Save As dialog box appears: Nine seconds.

“Wow, Shawn. First World problems much?”

Yeah. I know.

Did I turn into a technological vampire? Do I exist? Did I slip into an alternate Jacob’s Ladder Purgatory dimension where technology responding to my prompts is optional?

My Wife had four interviews for a job. She got notice that she’d hear either way from the HR department on a Thursday.  All that Thursday I checked my phone. Checking my phone checking my phone checking my phone. She never got the call. So surely they were busy and she was going to hear on Friday. (Checking my phone. Checking my phone. Checking my phone.) Call wife: “Did you hear anything? No?” Okay, well it was a busy week. They’ll call Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

This scenario went on five weeks. Obviously she didn’t get the job. But would my wife follow up and call the guy who swore he’d call her either way and see what happened? Did they hire somebody else? Was she asking too much money? JUST MAKE THE FRICKIN’ CALL SO WE CAN MOVE ON WITH OUR LIVES, WOMAN!

Nope.

And The World’s Most Impatient Man now turns his frustration for some company in another state towards his wife who just doesn’t want to chase the rejection.

I’m brilliant that way.

The rate I’m going, I will have to change my business card to read “The Most Impatient Single Man in the World.™”

Every car I’ve ever owned has been cursed with a factory-installed Douchebag Magnet, or DBM. The DBM ensures that if there is a douchebag driving anywhere in my vicinity, they will get sucked right in front of my car via the DBM where they can drive slow, barely break 30 on an acceleration ramp, and come to complete stops in the road before attempting the critical maneuver that you and I sometimes colloquial refer to as a “right turn.”

If I could find the DBM in my car I would rip it out and smash it with a hammer. Unfortunately Dad never showed me that particular car repair and it’s not in the index of my Haynes manual.

Perhaps Dad can help me extract the DBM on one beautiful Saturday afternoon when all the other retirees in the neighborhood are riding their bikes to the park.  I’d be happy to let him hold the flashlight.