There’s something about me none of you know, a problem I can’t seem to overcome.
I’m late. To everything.
Okay, well maybe not everything all the time, but it happens 90% of the time. I even bought a Cinderella t-shirt of her running away from the ball which reads, “Don’t be late” for a caption as an inside joke with myself because I usually am anyway.
I know, I know. It’s nothing drastic, but as I was driving to work this morning – late, again – I found myself asking myself why this is, why I almost have this apparent need to be late to everything.
Growing up I had a father who emphasised punctuality as if it were our sole reason for existence. It was second only to the need to meticulously plan out every single detail of every single day. Obviously, he was your stereotypical Type A person. In fact, if you looked up “Type A” in the dictionary, his picture would be there. (And for those who are curious, my father is an ENTJ.)
Before you think I’m still suffering from “daddy issues” like every other human in history, let me reassure you this is something I consistently tease my father (who turned 70 on last Saturday, and I don’t know who’s handling it worse, me or him) about now. That’s how restored our relationship is.
Obviously, then, there was a time I was consistently punctual. In fact, it was a strength I had, not a weakness. I remember showing up to choir events or musical rehearsals at least 30 minutes before everyone else because, “To be early is to be on time; to be on time is to be late; to be late is to be dead,” as we used to say.
So what happened?
Not sure. I think, honestly, I stopped caring.
Why waste my time and energy forcing and overly exerting myself when it’s not like the function will cease without me?
Of course, this is not exactly a great philosophy to have towards punctuality. And for the record, I’m not late to everything. It’s whimsical, I’ll admit. However, I haven’t lost all sense of responsibility, and I actually am on time to events (but only when I want to be).
You would also think with the professional day-job I have, I would make it more of an effort to consistently be on time, especially since my position does have a higher level of responsibility than others.
And yet my tardiness persists.
Maybe somewhere in the road of self-discovery I realised that I’ll get there when I get there because life is about enjoying, not rushing from one event to another in a hazy blur.
And you know what else? In addition to realising the consequences are not the dire life or death circumstances which they were equated to, I’m more relaxed and less stressed about life. Really.
It’s bizarre, but in losing my punctuality – my need for it as if it set me apart and made me better than the rest of society – I’ve found a peace in the stillness of life. Or rather, I’ve found the stillness because I’ve learned to quiet and still myself.
This post doesn’t have any real purpose or conclusion; it was merely the result of musings during my morning commute.
However, for all those recovering perfectionists out there, like myself, remember, as my brother reminded me recently, “You get one life. Live the one you want.” (Which that once ensued dread and horror in me: “What if I mess up and make the wrong choice?” Only that’s another topic for another time.)
Enjoy!