Short Fuse? Fly to Africa. . .or make an omlet

I am the second-most patient person in my immediate family. I am outdone in that department by my mom, who, with a large amount of grace and dignity, is almost always able to keep a level head. And when I've been on the wrong side of her finally losing it, I deserve it.

But in terms of length of fuse on my temper, I generally do pretty well. Patience, however, is something I'm constantly trying to acquire and keep. So far, I've found two tried and tested ways of doing so: living in Egypt, and cooking.

Living and studying in Egypt taught me more things than I have fully realized. The experience put me under significant amounts of stress for a prolonged period of time. When I came home, I rightly judged that pretty much nothing could phase me. I had already gone through the same headache, frustration or annoyance, and it was probably worse. Actually, there's no debate that it wasn't worse. Anything is worse when you add in a nearly impregnable language barrier, hundred-degree heat and long sleeves and pants, and layers of bureaucracy and ineptitude.

For an anal-retentive control-freak perfectionist like me, there's not too much that's more horrible than being in an environment where next to nothing is under your power. Conversely, it's also downright awesome. If I'm stuck in a taxi and a million-car traffic jam half an hour away from the place I'm supposed to be at in fifteen minutes, well, too damn bad. I might as well relax, enjoy the minute to myself and read my book, which I brought expressly for this contingency. Sure I'd like to get to my interview on time, but the person I'm meeting will be late and I'll have been misinformed as to the practice time by the coach anyway and will then spend another hour sitting around until I can get to work. (Yes this is exactly what happened.)

So I quit worrying. My mom has told me hundreds of times not to worry about what I can't change, but it finally sunk in. That's been happening to me a lot lately, and I feel it's fair to call her with my tail between my legs when it happens and let her know she was right.

Cooking also works wonders for both my sanity and my stress level. There's also the added bonus of getting to eat. The laws of physics apply in my kitchen: it takes me 15 minutes to boil water (for grits or pasta) and scrambled eggs just need time.

You have to let the pancakes cook before you flip them, and no amount of cursing or checking with the spatula will speed up this process. What it will do is drive me nuts and ruin what was previously on track to be a perfect flapjack, but is now maimed and deformed.

Therefore, I tell myself to wait, and just let the scrambled eggs cook, the onions sautee, and the oil get nice and hot before I throw the popcorn in. Not quite as grueling a strategy as flying halfway around the world for self-betterment, but cheaper.

As my arab-imposed self-restraint starts to ebb away, I force myself to remember what I've learned as I fight the urge to eviscerate random passers-by when they do something stupid. And then I go home, and in the piece de resistance, check my email while I watch the pot.