Why the Spinning Circle on the Screen Makes Me So Impatient

A tiny circle spins steadily in the middle of a white screen. My thumb was already resting on the reload button before it finished its second turn.

I never timed how long it spins. A guess would be four, five seconds. And yet in those four or five seconds, some days I reload, I go back, and then I open a different app altogether so I do not have to look at it.

This is not going to tell you to be more patient. Patience is a trait, and telling someone who is impatient to be patient is like telling someone who is hungry to be full. Nor is it a complaint about phones or slow connections: the connection really is slow, and being impatient with it is normal. What I want to describe is much narrower, just the few seconds between tapping and getting a result, and one small thing I managed to do inside that gap.

Why do a few seconds of waiting feel longer than a few minutes of work?

Tuesday noon, ten to twelve. I was standing in a corner of the office pantry, one hand holding an iced milk coffee whose ice had almost all melted, the other tapping to order lunch. The circle spun. I tapped again. It started over from the beginning.

"What are you tapping at, like you're playing a drum?" Thảo asked, picking up a cup and glancing over.

"It froze."

"It's been a few seconds."

I was about to argue. Then I tried to remember honestly, and a few seconds really was a few seconds.

The easy explanation is a weak connection and a slow app. True, but if that were all, I would be equally restless every time I wait, and I am not. I can wait two minutes for a pot of water to boil. I can stand in line for bread while the person ahead of me counts out small change, and put up with that too. The difference sits in my thumb: it is resting on a button.

At the pot I have no button to press, so I simply wait. In front of the circle I have a feeling that if I tap at the right moment, in the right way, it will go faster. The feeling is wrong: most of the time, tapping again only restarts the spin. But it is strong enough to send my hand ahead of my head, and to turn a few seconds of waiting into a few seconds in which I feel robbed of any say.

For me, the impatience here is not really a fear of losing time. It is closer to the feeling of having something to do and not being allowed to do it. Four seconds with nothing to do, and the hand still itching.

So the practice I tried was not about waiting well. It was only lifting my thumb off the button, for a few seconds.

The first time, four seconds felt strangely long. Long enough that I thought the app had really broken. On the second day I started noticing my finger twitch before I even meant to tap. On the third day there was one time the page appeared while I was still looking at my cup, and I felt those seconds had not gone anywhere. It does not go that way every day. Some days I still tap four times.

There is one small sign that I am doing it right: not that the impatience is gone, but that I know I am impatient. Those are two different things, and the second is the one I can actually do.

What goes wrong most often is turning the four seconds into an endurance contest. I once stared at the spinning circle, gripping the edge of the table, telling myself I must not tap. That way is tempting because it looks like seriousness, and because beating my own finger feels like control. But by the third second I was more tired than when I tapped wildly. The version that works is lighter: let the hand rest, and lift the eyes somewhere else. Nobody wins.

Other kinds of waiting have a button too

Sunday, at my mother's house. Her wifi is a little weak, and the video I opened for her froze halfway, right at the funny part of the show. Mom sat in her chair with both hands resting on her knees. I had already poked at the screen three times.

"Just let it run, dear. I can wait."

I looked at her hands. They lay still, as if those seconds were asking nothing of her.

That day I realised the button is not only on the screen. It comes in many forms. Pressing the microwave when ten seconds are left. Lifting the lid of the rice cooker before it clicks off. Pulling out a phone when the lift has not yet reached the floor. The forms differ, but underneath is the same movement: when there is nothing to do, the hand looks for something to do, and we call that impatience.

I am not saying it is bad. It is a very natural habit, and it helps me finish a lot of things. It is just that some waits are ones it does not help, and only leaves me more tired. Spotting each of those buttons is also a way of practising mindfulness, and it needs no sitting down and no closed eyes. If you are interested in small gaps like these, three seconds of mindfulness in a busy day is the same idea, even shorter. And if your impatience lives out on the road instead of on a screen, ninety seconds at a red light tells how someone else tried exactly that spot.

Here is another way to try, one that asks less of you: pick three buttons that are familiar to you, then keep an eye on them for a day.

1. Which button do you press before it is time: the rice cooker, the microwave, the lift, or reload?
2. When you press, what are you waiting for: a result, a person, or just the feeling of doing something?
3. If you did not press, what would the next few seconds look like?

You do not need good answers. You only need to see which button you are standing next to.

There is one mistake I made here, and it is worth saying: I tried to keep an eye on every button in the same day. By the afternoon I was as tired as if I had been guarding a whole city. One waiting spot per day is enough. Today it is the circle, another day it is the rice cooker. One place at a time is what lasts.

If you try it for a few days and your finger still taps by itself

It happens, and there is nothing strange about it. These are the two reasons I run into most often.

The first is that my finger taps before I remember the practice. I have already tapped, and only then think oh, today I meant not to. The way forward is not blaming myself. I change where the hand rests: put the phone face down before I wait, or hold it in the other hand. If the finger has to take one extra beat, there is time to remember.

The second is that the moment really is urgent. A form due at the deadline, money being sent to someone, a message with an expiry. Then tap like normal. This practice is not asking anyone to sit still while work is running. Not every few seconds of waiting needs to be listened to.

And if you try both and still notice no difference, that is fine too. Some people wait best by getting up and walking to the window. The only thing worth keeping is that the finger does not always get there first.

Next time a circle is spinning in front of you, try letting your hand rest for a moment.

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