If Type A personalities are workaholics, my wife complains that I’m a Type Z. “If you moved any slower, I’d have you reupholstered,” was how she put it this morning. It wasn’t always that way. I used to be one of those guys who worked two jobs and would go raving mad if there wasn’t something to do every single waking moment. I would come back from vacations more tired than when I left. If it took most people seven days to see Europe, I would try to do it in three. The Eiffel Tower? Done. The Vatican? Done. Buckingham Palace? Done. Bye. Next!

If we went to a ball game, I was one of those jerks who gets up in the seventh inning and heads for the exits so they can beat the traffic. Waiting in line for anything would make me twitch. What are they doing up there? What could possibly take so long? I would lean out as far as I could to see what was holding everything up, I would stand on my tiptoes to try and give the culprit the evil eye. Then I’d turn to the guy behind me and tell him in great detail how much better things would be if I ran the place.