I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t in a hurry. I thought the constant hustle came from living in New York City, but I think it comes from within – and from my parents. My father drove fast and hated bad (READ: slow) drivers. We always had to “hurry up” to get to wherever it was we were going to make sure to avoid the crowds and then we would have to hurry to get home to avoid the traffic.

My mother was a fast walker and for the three decades she worked as a computer programmer (pre-Internet) in Manhattan, she commuted from Staten Island and existed in a perpetual hurry.

New York City dwellers and pedestrians tend to walk briskly as well – and follow the lights when crossing. There are a million variations for how to arrive at any NYC corner, so I navigate the streets by following green lights because I’m always in a hurry.

Lately, though, I realize I’m stressing myself out to be in a hurry to do fun things or dreadful things alike. If it’s something good (think beach), I want to hurry up and get to it so I can begin enjoying it – or relaxing. If it’s something not as fun (think gynecologist), I want to hurry up and do it to get it over with. It’s a catch 22 and I’m hurrying either way.

When I arrive at the ultimate destination, I can’t even enjoy it before my mind wanders to calculating how much time is left before I have to hurry up and get home and relax again.

I like taking care of business before I embrace fun. What do I do when there is no end to the business of life and I am rushing past the parts I wanted to savor?