It started with a simple request: print 50 flyers for a local charity event. I walked into the shop with a USB drive and optimism. The clerk squinted at the screen like it was hieroglyphics. “It’s not opening,” he muttered, clicking randomly. I offered to email the file. He nodded, then typed the address wrong—three times. I stood there, watching the cursor blink like a taunt. Forty-five minutes in, we hadn’t printed a single page. I reminded myself: this was for a good cause. Breathe. Smile. Don’t scream.
He finally opened the file, but the formatting was off. “You used weird fonts,” he said, as if I’d committed a crime. I offered to reformat it myself. “No need,” he insisted, then spent ten minutes resizing each flyer manually. I watched him drag boxes like a medieval scribe. My patience was thinning, but I stayed calm. I even complimented his effort. He smiled proudly, unaware that I was mentally composing a Yelp review titled “The Twilight Zone of Printing.”
Then came the printing. The machine jammed. Twice. He opened it like a surgeon, pulling out crumpled sheets with reverence. “It’s old,” he said. “Needs love.” I nodded, suppressing a laugh. He restarted it, and finally—finally—the flyers began to roll out. I clapped. He beamed. “You’re the most patient customer I’ve had,” he said. I wanted to say, “You have no idea,” but I just smiled. The flyers looked great. The charity event would go on. And I had earned a badge in silent endurance.
I walked out with my flyers and a story I’d tell for years. It wasn’t just about printing—it was about surviving a slow-motion circus with grace. I realized patience isn’t just a virtue; it’s a superpower. That day, I didn’t lose my cool, didn’t lash out, didn’t walk away. I stayed, endured, and even found humor in the chaos. And somewhere in that tiny print shop, I left behind a piece of myself—probably stuck in the printer tray.
