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Loafers, Waiting Rooms, and Finding Hope in the Middle of the Pandemic

It’s been almost a year since we moved out to the farm. It never fails that when Jeff and I turn south to head toward town, we get behind a “loafer.” A loafer is what my Grandpa called old men in pick-up trucks driving under the speed limit. Loafers aren’t really headed anywhere in particular so they go slow----especially past the dollar store. (We haven't figure that one out.)
These slowpokes on Hwy 16 drive my husband crazy! It's rare to be going somewhere where being a few minutes late would make a difference, but Jeff can not abide the pace. He doesn’t even like to let his truck’s engine turn off at a stoplight. He’s always on the ready.
I get it. Most days he works under pressure as he sees his patients who have been waiting on him. He assumes they hate waiting as much as he does. Besides, it’s not easy when you are waiting with a two-year-old so he works at high RPM to try to move through the appointment schedule as quickly as possible.
I’m not picking on him. You and I are…

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