I went to an appointment today and the person I was supposed to meet with was over an hour late. She was so late I had to go to another appointment and then drive the 17 miles back to her office for our 15-minute meeting.
I’m not sure whether I’m more ticked about having to make the drive the second time or if it’s the fact that she stole time from me with nothing but frustration to show for it.
As I’m getting older—on the downhill slope of over 50—my time has become more valuable to me. The choices I make are starting to be governed by the time needed to complete the task. If it’s family-related I basically turn off the clock and don’t think about it. Other than that, I mentally demand something to show from my efforts.
Part of this is coming to grips with mortality and our unknown life-expectancy. There’s a certain sense of bizarre morbidity when contemplating your life’s hourglass.
Take this story for example. Is it worth the time I’m taking to write it? Is it worth the self-gratification or possible exposure to readers to justify my taking time to type this right now?
In my younger years, the world was a picture of endless mounds of time. Time was spent haphazardly in the throes of the nonsensical and unproductive expenditure of time. I spent my time like an heir with a penchant for jewelry; wasted it all over and had nothing of real value to it.
Now my time is treated like a miser, doled out carefully as I grip it greedily in both hands. The end of each day looking backward to the moment my eyes abandoned sleep and brain pushed me to “accomplish something!”
And now, I’ve taken your time. I’ve stolen a fraction of your existence, un-returnable as time, only given back as a memory and a possible call to action in the future. Did you learn something? Did you resolve something about your life from reading this?