Shit, we’re late. I gun the green light. I shouldn’t be rushing.

“Shoot, we’re late!” I call to my daughters in the backseat.

Ah, what does it matter if we’re late (again), I rationalize to myself. It’s only a swimming lesson.

“Oh no!” my older daughter, Julie, says.

“It’s going to be okay,” I reassure.

“But it’s a swimming lesson!”

“We’ll get there.”

Patience has never been the strong suit of the music fan. When we want—no —when we need to hear a song—we find it immediately, even if it means hopping in the car and driving home to retrieve it. When a new album comes out that we’re dying to get our grubby paws on, there’s no hinting to our loved ones about how much we want it—we head over to iTunes, Best Buy or our favorite music piracy source, and we get the damn music. Call us impetuous, call us emotional—just keep the path between us and our music free and clear.