The Other Queue

This has happened before.

I have a special talent.

Put me in a place with several queues, and I can identify the slowest one with remarkable accuracy.

I don’t deliberately choose it.

That would at least demonstrate a skill.

I study the options, make what appears to be an intelligent decision…

and then it becomes the slowest queue.

I sometimes wonder whether I choose slow queues or whether queues slow down simply because I have joined them.

There is evidence for both theories.

About a year ago, we were travelling as a family to the Maldives.

At the airport, we reached security and found several queues leading to the scanning counters.

The first was long and winding.

Then I noticed the last one.

Short.

Straight.

Beautiful.

I didn’t conduct a feasibility study.

I didn’t consult my family.

I simply did what any experienced traveller with an eye for efficiency would do.

I headed for it.

My family followed.

For the first few moments, I was rather pleased with myself.

There is a particular satisfaction in discovering a shorter queue before everyone else.

It says:

You understand systems.

You notice things.

This family is fortunate to have you.

I didn’t actually say any of this.

My expression probably did.

Then we stopped moving.

The long queue continued advancing.

Ours didn’t.

Then I discovered why.

Airline crew.

They had priority at our counter.

Fair enough.

A group went through.

We waited.

Then another group arrived.

They went through.

We waited.

Then another.

Meanwhile, people who had joined the long queue after us were disappearing through security.

There are few sights more irritating than the back of someone who arrived after you…

leaving before you.

Especially when you chose the queue.

I could sense my family’s confidence in my decision-making beginning to weaken.

Nobody said anything.

Families have ways of communicating disappointment without wasting words.

I glanced towards the other queue.

This is never a good idea.

The people there seemed happier.

Their luggage looked lighter.

Even the security officer seemed more cheerful.

Then another group of airline crew appeared.

By now, I suspected they were being specially summoned.

Of course, we eventually got through.

We reached the Maldives.

The holiday was wonderful.

No flights were missed.

No permanent damage was done to family relationships.

But this wasn’t the first time I’d been betrayed by location.

It had happened with fish too.

Years ago, whenever I tried my hand at fishing, I’d find what looked like a promising spot beside a pond.

Cast my line.

And wait.

Nothing.

Not even an enquiry.

A little distance away, someone would get a bite.

Then another.

Clearly, I concluded, the fish were over there.

So I’d move.

Cast again.

Wait.

Nothing.

Then, with exquisite timing, someone near the place I’d just abandoned would catch a fish.

Eventually I considered the possibility that the problem wasn’t the bait.

Or the pond.

Or the location.

The fish were avoiding me.

I never proved this scientifically.

The fish refused to cooperate with the investigation.

Traffic lanes behave similarly.

So do supermarket queues.

The lane beside mine moves faster until I enter it.

The supermarket queue with twelve people somehow finishes before mine with three.

Over the years, I’ve become very good at noticing the other queue.

And perhaps that’s the real problem.

Because we don’t do this only at airports, supermarkets or fishing ponds.

We do it with life.

Someone else’s career seems to be moving faster.

Someone travels more.

Someone earns more.

Someone’s children seem to have everything figured out.

Someone appears to be enjoying retirement far more successfully than we are.

And social media has made watching the other queues remarkably convenient.

We see promotions.

Holidays.

New homes.

Celebrations.

Smiling families.

We see people moving forward.

And occasionally we wonder…

Should I have chosen that queue?

But that airport queue taught me something.

I could see how long the other queue was.

I couldn’t see what was happening at its counter.

Perhaps other people’s lives are much the same.

We see where they are.

We don’t know how long they’ve waited.

What delayed them.

What they’ve carried.

Or what happened before we started comparing.

Every queue has something you can’t see from the outside.

These days, I try not to watch the other queue too closely.

I haven’t completely succeeded.

If it starts moving particularly fast, I still become interested.

Wisdom has its limits.

But between airport security and several extremely uncooperative fish, I’ve learnt something.

The other queue often looks better simply because we’re not standing in it.

Perhaps happiness begins when we stop wondering whether we should be standing somewhere else.

And if you ever find yourself in a queue beside mine…

stay exactly where you are.

There’s an excellent chance yours is about to start moving.