Molassesish

By on

If molassesish isn’t a word in the English language (and I highly recommend its translation & adoption into every existing language), it most certainly should be.

I’ve already right-clicked my mouse and added it to dictionary. I fully intend to use this word where applicable and no spell-check is necessary.

The origin of this word is rather interesting. A colleague of mine a few years ago often used the phrase, “…as slow as molasses in January.” This was in Fargo, North Dakota so I believe you now see my point. That sentence would make just as much sense using any other month of the year except a couple of weeks in August for that part of the world; global warming notwithstanding.

I use this word to imply an excruciatingly slow rate of movement; in speech for instance as is outlined in the positively electrifying conversation below between me & a coffee shop barista a few days ago.

By the end of that conversation, it was that triple espresso that saved me from going through the trouble of having someone jump start my ticker.

You’ll agree with me after reading the conversation below (should you survive the experience) that I should have been fully allowed within the bounds of the law to use a certain amount of electrical energy on this barista.

I’ll have you know that each of those “…” in the conversation below felt like evolutionary periods although I believe they were roughly 3 seconds each. To a permanently caffeinated bleeding extrovert like some of us, 3 seconds can feel like an infinity.

Me: Good morning. How are you?

Barista: …Hell….o. …I am…fine. …How…are…you…? (the change in the barista’s facial expression to indicate a question took that much longer after the completion of the spoken sentence).

Me: Fine, thank you. A triple espresso please?

Barista: …1…triple…express…right…?

Me: A triple espresso. Thank you.

Barista: …esp…re…sso. …Anything…else…sir…?

Me: No, thank you.

Barista: …$ 1.10…sir. …(this sentence was left unfinished by the speaker).

Me: Shall I insert this chip card into the slot or slide it?

Barista: …chip…card…insert…? …Yes…chip…card…insert…please.

Me: Thank you. There you go.

Barista: …Thank…you. …Would…you…like…the…receipt…?

Me: No, thank you.

Barista: …Thank…you…sir.

Me: Where shall I pick up my drink? Your pick-up station is crowded with boxes of paper towel rolls.

Barista: (turns rather slowly to look at where I am pointing)…Oh…yeah…paper…towels…(another unfinished sentence).

Me: Yes. Here, let me help you put those boxes away on that table beside the door.

Barista:…Thank…

By the time the word “you” had emerged, traveled through air as a vibration at the speed of sound (which for this barista is and always will be unimaginably fast) and reached my ear, the boxes had begun collecting dust on that table beside the door.

I did consider giving this barista my triple espresso…but…it’s a triple espresso! I am not that generous even when I haven’t had my first cup of the day.