Last Saturday, I spent four hours running errands. Post office. Hardware store. Pharmacy. Groceries. The bank, because apparently some things still require walking into an actual bank.

Four hours. And I enjoyed almost all of it.

If you’d told me this five years ago, I’d have assumed you were describing someone else.

The old way

I used to treat errands like obstacles. Things standing between me and my “real” life. I’d batch them into the smallest possible window, rushing from place to place, mentally calculating how quickly I could get back home.

Post office? In and out. Don’t make eye contact.

Grocery store? List in hand, walking fast, mild rage at anyone blocking the aisle.

Waiting in line? Phone out immediately. Scrolling through nothing, just to feel like I wasn’t wasting time.

My body was at the pharmacy, but my mind was already three stops ahead, planning dinner, thinking about work, anywhere but here.

I got things done. But I also felt constantly behind. Like I was sprinting through my own life.

The shift

It happened gradually. I don’t think there was one moment.

But at some point, I started noticing things.

The guy at the hardware store who always remembers my name, even though I only go there maybe twice a year. The way the light hits the produce section on Saturday mornings. The particular satisfaction of checking things off a list, one by one.

I stopped rushing. Not consciously at first—I just got tired. Tired of the internal clock always ticking, the constant sense of urgency about things that weren’t actually urgent.

So I slowed down. And something strange happened.

The errands got better.

What I noticed

People are interesting. The woman ahead of me at the post office was mailing something to her grandson in Canada. She told the clerk about it. I learned he’s four years old and obsessed with trains. That’s a small thing. It’s also a lovely thing. I never would have heard it if I’d been staring at my phone.

Walking between places is nice. I used to drive or rush between stops. Now I walk when I can. Ten minutes between the bank and the grocery store. Trees. A dog being walked. The smell of bread from somewhere. It’s not nothing.

There’s rhythm to it. Errands have a shape when you let them. You start, you do things, you finish. Each small task completed feels like a tiny win. I used to dismiss that feeling as trivial. Now I think it’s kind of the point.

The grocery store revelation

This sounds silly, but stay with me.

A few months ago, I was at the grocery store without a list. Just wandering the aisles, seeing what looked good.

No plan. No rush. Just… shopping.

I found a cheese I’d never tried before. Stood in the spice aisle for ten minutes comparing paprikas. Watched a dad let his kid pick out the cereal (it took forever, and they both looked happy).

When I got to the checkout, I realized I’d been there for almost an hour. It felt like twenty minutes.

That’s when I understood: errands aren’t the obstacle. The rushing is the obstacle. The errands are just… life. Small pieces of ordinary life that I’d been trying to skip through.

What changed practically

I block more time now. If I think errands will take two hours, I give myself three. The extra hour isn’t for more errands—it’s for not rushing through the ones I have.

I leave my headphones at home sometimes. This felt radical at first. Silence? In public? But it turns out the world has its own soundtrack. Conversations at the next table. The hum of a refrigerator. Footsteps. It’s not silence, really. It’s just unfiltered.

I chat with people. Not forced small talk—just openness to conversation if it happens. The cashier who comments on something I’m buying. The person next to me at the deli counter. These exchanges are brief and unmemorable and somehow they make me feel more connected to my neighborhood.

The bigger thing

Here’s what I think this is really about: I spent years trying to minimize the ordinary parts of life so I could get to the good parts faster.

But the ordinary parts are the good parts. Or they can be. Or they’re at least part of the same life as the good parts, and treating them like obstacles just means spending most of your time feeling like you’re waiting for something else.

I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to be here. Even if here is the post office on a Saturday.

Especially then, maybe.

Next Saturday I have to return something to a store across town. I’m weirdly looking forward to it.