In the Middle

Stories from long lines and the craziness that comes with waiting your turn

So you know the kinds of lines we were waiting in….

“Just stay calm, and DON’T. MOVE.”

The woman’s low voice in my left ear wasn’t threatening, but the words she spoke made me instantly tense and very afraid. Until that moment, I hadn’t really considered any alternative to calm and stillness. I was bored, standing in line for security at the tiny Kerry, Ireland airport at the end of Thanksgiving weekend. There’s only one single gate from which two flights were leaving, and ours was the later. Matt had–as always–made sure we were at the airport with plenty of time. The queue wound tightly around the cramped space like a coiled snake, and with almost all passengers for both planes present, we weren’t going anywhere fast. I’d been staring at my phone, and now I wondered what imminent danger I had missed.

I turned toward the woman and saw the threat: a yellowjacket resting on my sleeve. Yellowjackets are in the Vile Sociopath Club of the animal kingdom. Back when I was pregnant with Wyatt and we lived in Anacortes, Washington, I was at a park one day with my parents and the three older girls. Dad took Jayna and Skyler on a trail along the rocky shore while my mother and I walked down the road, an easier route for someone as gigantically pregnant as I was just then and Lilly, who was too small for scrambling over boulders. As we approached the point where the two paths converged, we heard a little girl screaming, right about where we figured Dad was just then. My heart pounded as Mom and I exchanged worried glances, then jogged (or in my case, waddled quickly) toward the trail. The screams continued, but to our astonishment, a man came crashing out of the bushes emitting the noise.

“That little bastard stung me four times!” he said to two boys with him, waving his arms maniacally around his head. They looked at him with an awkward mixture of sympathy and embarrassment about how their dad had literally just screamed like a girl.  

Deeply relieved that it wasn’t one of my daughters screaming, I now bit the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. Dad appeared a few moments later with the girls, who were snickering quietly.

“We shouldn’t laugh,” Dad said, even though his voice betrayed him. “It could happen to any of us.”

And just like that, Jayna went, “OW!!!” Sure enough, she had been stung through the back pocket of her jeans. 

Who does that?! What kind of creature is so evil and mean-spirited as to sneak up on an innocent child just minding her own business and stab her in the rear?!?! A yellowjacket, that’s who. And now I had one on my arm.

“Get… it… OFF… ME!!!!!” I said, as calmly as I could, though my crescendoing voice revealed the terror bubbling up. My words weren’t necessary because before I had finished saying them, a rolled-up magazine hit my arm with a resounding THWACK!! I thanked the woman for the beating.

Somehow, though, she missed, and then we had the only thing worse than a yellowjacket in a crowded, closed-in space: an angry yellowjacket in a crowded, closed-in space. It dive-bombed heads, buzzed past tender ears, and spun intimidating circles in people’s faces. Even if I couldn’t see the actual bug, I knew exactly who in the queue was being terrorized by the flailing arms, animated shouts, and panicked escape attempts. With no small amount of awe, I observed a dissolution of civility wrought by a tiny menace armed with a barely visible but potentially deadly (if you’re allergic) and always painful stinger. All of a sudden, though, it turned and as if by magic, found its way out of the automatic doors as an unsuspecting traveler walked in, ducking her head to let the little terrorist break loose.

A month later, while waiting in line for tickets to the Colosseum in Rome, another woman leaned close and spoke to me.

“Excuse me, this man… He is with you?” 

All five of our kids were with us, and I could see them, plus Matt, in front of me. The man in question was maybe in his sixties, with silver hair and sunglasses. He was well-dressed in a dark coat with a smudge of shaving cream by his ear. 

“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “This is my family.” I indicated the small crowd in front of me. 

She smiled and said, “Okay. I think this. But he tell me you are his family.”  

“No, definitely not,” I said with a little laugh, then fixed him with a hard stare to drive home my point. 

We were in line for about an hour, having failed to get reservations before. Already, a man wearing a “Tourist Information” lanyard around his neck had tried to con us into a “private tour,” a scam we’d read about prior to our visit. Another man wearing a beanie crocheted with “ROME” on it kept pacing back and forth next to us, shouting to come with him on his tour. He dropped something, and as he bent to pick it up, a large wrench fell out of his jacket pocket.

A wrench. As in, one of the potential murder weapons in the game of Clue. Sure, there are fine, legal reasons for someone to carry a wrench. But the more he yelled at us, the more I wondered if might suddenly grab us by the collar and wave the wrench behind his head, screaming, “I SAID, JOIN MY TOUR!!” 

Considering it was one of the most popular times to be in Rome–something we’d normally avoid except that it was the only chance we had to all go together–one hour wasn’t a terrible wait. But it wasn’t fun either and for the entire time, the man behind us kept trying to inch up near our family. Finally, Matt stepped to the rear of our group. When the stranger tried to pass him, he said, “Sir, you’re not behind us. This woman is. Don’t get in front of her.” 

The man shook his head and waved his hands in front of his body. “No, no! I don’t try to get in front of you! I only see the arch!” He pointed to one of the arches that’s visible from anywhere in the line. “Very historic! Beautiful arch! I not go in front! The most important thing is that you are in front of me.” 

I burst out laughing. “Good! Then we agree!” I said. “But don’t go in front of her either.” I pointed to the woman. 

As we approached the ticket booths, right where there was a rope separating the queue from the rest of the chaos that surrounds the Colosseum, another man suddenly appeared in front of us. One second he was talking to a slender young man in a tailored navy blue coat and expensive shoes with a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, and the next, he stood with the Brazilian family in front of us, meaty fists wedged into the pockets of his white hooded sweatshirt. The family was regarding him uncomfortably, murmuring in Portuguese while he stood a good foot taller than them, staring straight ahead with pale and vacuous eyes.

“Did that guy just cut in front of us?!” I was incredulous. 

“I think so,” Matt answered dryly.

I shook my head, still disbelieving. There were Colosseum employees just a few feet away, observing without comment. We had waited an hour to get to this point! Not today, Satan. Not today! “I’m going to say something!” 

“Joy! No!” 

“Hi!” I gave the Brazilian family a tiny wave.

“Jooyyyy…” Matt groaned softly behind me.

“Is this man with you?” I asked. 

They shook their heads. “No! He was just there! Like a magic trick!”

“That’s what I thought! Excuse me,” I now addressed the hired line thug, “you are not in front of us.” 

As if he hadn’t noticed anyone behind him till just then, he gave a neanderthal-ish grunt and shuffled in behind us, just in front of the previous line cutter. It was a kind of karma, but I still fumed for everyone else. I gave him one final, fierce glare before we bought our tickets, but as we walked away, Matt said, “Joy, maybe it’s best not to pick a fight with a guy who could punch in your teeth.” 

“He picked the fight! I just don’t abide bullies!”

“But if he looks like a former KGB operative… I’m just saying, think about it a little.” 

Well, I did think about it, and I stand by what I did. I’m not about to tell an older, nicely dressed man he can’t cut in line and then let a six-foot-five brute do it just because he looks like he has killed people with his thumb. Nevertheless, I kept glancing over my shoulder as we toured the Colosseum, the Forum, and Palatine Hill.  

After these past few years, I’ve done a whole lot of waiting. Sometimes it felt absolutely pointless, like when we bought our house in 2020 and then had to live in it for six weeks without our household goods (furniture, kitchenware, winter clothes when it was snowing, etc), which were just hanging out somewhere between California and Arkansas. But even that showed me how creative my kids could be with very little and that we could still celebrate as we didn’t know how long we’d have to go without.

One year ago, almost to the day, Matt got the email requesting an interview for the job he is now doing. We didn’t leave Korea until four months later. Sometimes it felt like that wait was going to actually break my brain because it gave me so much time to overthink whether this was the best move. When Matt first told me, I honestly wasn’t sold on the idea, but the more I thought and prayed, the more sincerely I hoped it would all come together. And our move, while certainly filled with a few challenges, felt like a gift, over and over again. 

November 9th marked one year since I finished the first draft of my memoir manuscript. They say it’s good to leave the manuscript alone for a while, to let it breathe and then come back with a fresh set of eyes. I did that, kind of expecting to come back loathing every word I’d written. Instead, the waiting and the subsequent work I did when I returned to it has further crystallized exactly why I wrote like a mad woman, 70,000+ words in nine weeks, and why I so desperately want it to bring it into the world the best way possible. But there are still so many questions about how to make it happen—so much planning, thinking, and basically, waiting. It feels weird and unfair sometimes to have this long pause after I worked so furiously to get it written, the action that followed several years of this idea rolling around in my head.

All this to say that while I’ve practiced waiting so much already, I still would rather not. I’m no Zen guru; I’ll probably always wish there was a way to cut the line or buzz around in someone’s face until doors open. But I’m holding onto hope that this waiting really is producing something good.

I’m not great at picking a word for the year, but I’ve decided that The Middle by Jimmy Eat World is my anthem right now. Maybe it’s basic and obvious and trite, but it’s the song I need to have stuck in my head.

Later that day in Rome, another would-be tour guide shouted at us as we walked toward St. Peter’s Basilica.

“Madame! Do you have tickets? I get you tickets! Special tour!! Come with me!!!”

I was tired and thinking about something else, so for a second, I looked up, made eye contact, and smiled. Why?!?! Big mistake. The man started listing off all the wonderful things he could do for us and made it sound like the only alternative to him was Dante’s Inferno. 

“No thanks, we’re fine,” Matt told him. 

“You sure? You’ll wait a very long time. You might not get in at all.” 

Matt nodded. “We’re sure.”

The disappointed guide shouted sarcastically after us, “Okay, well, enjoy your line!” 

I turned my head and made eye contact one more time, this time adding my best and brightest smile. “Grazie.” 

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A couple quick things: I never did get around to writing that “Best of 2023” post that I mentioned in my last Substack. I was soaking in family time. Now it feels maybe a little late, but here’s a quick list of three books I read last year (note: most weren’t released in 2023) that I’m being really annoying about insisting others read. (Kind of like that yellowjacket.)

• Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver. I cannot emphasize enough that you should read this book if you haven’t yet. It’s not an easy read, a modern retelling of Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield, detailing our very broken foster care system, child labor and abuse, drug abuse and specifically the oxycontin crisis. But Kingsolver’s creation of the character Demon and his narrative voice is absolutely breathtaking. I have a very hard time reading anything that involves kids being hurt, but I made it through and am so glad I did.

• How to Stay Married by Harrison Scott Key. After so many moves, I buy very few hard copies of books, but I bought this one after hearing Key on a podcast and discovering his writing. (side note: read 50 Shades of Greyhound, but not while consuming food because you’ll laugh so hard that anything in your mouth will become a projectile. Ask me how I know). When Matt saw it on my nightstand, he picked it up and asked, “Um. Are we okay?” Rather than a how-to, this memoir chronicles the discovery Key’s wife’s affair and the title comes from his internet searches in the aftermath. It an honest look at his marriage with many important thoughts and observations applicable to everyone, regardless of marital status.

• Sorry I’m Late, I Didn’t Want to Come by Jess Pan. The subtitle is An Introvert’s Year of Living Dangerously. I think I avoided reading this for a long time because I thought it was going to be cynical, “This is the way I am, and I’m not going to bother changing,” like I see and hear so often regarding personality types. Instead, I found a very entertaining, interesting story about why we need each other, why it’s so, SO worth pushing out of comfort zones to connect and create community.

I feel like “New year, new me” starts with every move, and since our move was less than a year ago, I don’t really need any dramatic changes yet. But I did make one simple resolution: to be kind to my feet this year and only wear shoes that don’t hurt. I have a lot of foot issues (super high arches, metatarsal bursitis, plantar fascitis, etc), so please comment with your best recommendations!

And that’s it for now, friends! I hope the new year is off to a good start for you. I’d love for you to share in the comments stories of waiting and what came of it, your favorite reads from last year, and of course, shoes!