I saw a poster in a store today that read, "Be Patient with Me, God is Still at Work." I began to think about patience, tolerance and this whole "maturing" thing. I find as I get older that I'm more patient and less tolerant, the antithesis of youth and years gone by. As children, patience eludes us. On road trips, how many times were our long-suffering parents asked, "Are we there yet?" We wanted something and we wanted it right then. So characteristic of youth!

A friend asked me to define the difference between patience and tolerance. Here's my take on things: Tolerance is acknowledging the fact that I'm not as young as I used to be. Patience is the dish of prunes in the regularity of life. One philosopher called patience the greatest of all virtues; I call it a necessity of life that keeps us getting up every morning with a smile, ready to face the unfairness of gravity.

"For years I rushed through the grocery lines, anxious to get on with the business at hand. I've now DISCOVERED A NEW LIFE in the tabloids and am reassured on a weekly basis that JFK and Elvis are alive and well on some remote beach, hanging out with aliens who strayed from Roswell, New Mexico."

I was a child of the '60s, a Baby Boomer, as many of us are. I had very little patience but extreme tolerance for the tumultuous change we experienced politically and socially. It was almost as though it was an expected part of growing up, a rite of passage if you will. I think back and wonder at the energy we had for peace marches, Woodstock, love-ins, the fall of Camelot, Vietnam and integration. We tolerated almost more than our tender years could bear and had no patience for anything but change.

It's amazing what a seemingly few short years can do. I now find that I have more patience than tolerance and am very vocal about my position. I really don't handle the impudence of today's youth, who I affectionately refer to as the "entitlement generation." The majority of young people today can't spell and certainly can't make change without a computer spitting out the answer. It bothers me. Forget about grammar. If I hear one more person declare, "I'm goin' with," I'm going to scream. Going with whom? Spell it out! Oh, that's right, they can't spell.

I barely tolerate the skimpily-clad young (and not so young) people. I don't need to see your navel. I know you have one. Surprise us and hide it. Low riders? Come on, you're not plumbers. Wear a belt, put on some clothes, learn to spell, add and speak correctly. Is that too much to ask? I've got to believe that Emily Post has done somersaults in her grave over the changes in manners and acceptable standards over the past few years.

One of the nicest things about getting older is that we can be more set in our ways. We don't have to tolerate the petty things and we choose out battles much more carefully because we just don't have the boundless energy we used to have. We've earned the right to be selective and should be proud of it.

For years I rushed through the grocery lines, anxious to get on with the business at hand. I've now discovered a new life in the tabloids and am reassured on a weekly basis that JFK and Elvis are alive and well on some remote beach, hanging out with aliens who strayed from Roswell, New Mexico.

That's what patience is all about. Patience is being a grandparent; tolerance is making it through parenting. Patience is taking time to smell the roses; tolerance is loving the roses despite the thorns. Patience is loving the life you live; tolerance is going through life with a guarded attitude, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Patience is a gift we give ourselves. Tolerance is a gift we give to the world.


Give Ann the gift of your electronic twin's company and send her an e-mail at ann@insidescv.com.