Time Got Away from Me

It happened again last night.  I entered the bedroom an hour after telling my wife I’d be right up.

“What happened?” she wanted to know.

Yes, what happened?  Was it the sports blog, the Facebook post, the twenty-five channels I had randomly surfed, or the piece of chicken parmigiana I had tried to work free of one of my molars?  I ransacked my mind, but couldn’t find one reasonable answer.  What else could I say?

“Time got away from me.”

Time Got Away from Me: what can we do about this slippery fellow, Time? Share on X

How did it happen yet again?  How does a minute become an hour, a day become a week, and a week become a month?  Who is this person Time that I’m continually trying to catch up with?  And does he have a more devious plot in mind?

My Wife Catches On

The following week, I was sitting in the den when my wife walked in the door.  She’d been out at a networking event, and expected Colleen to be in bed, not watching “Sponge Bob, Square Pants” at ten o’clock at night surrounded by the remains of empty fruit cups.

“Why is Colleen still up?” she asked.

I looked up from my laptop.  Why is she still up?  How exactly had that happened?  Only a moment ago, I had plopped my derriere into the cushy leather confines of my recliner, and yet two hours had passed.  Surely, there was an explanation.

After pondering the question, I determined that there was only one conclusion, and it was derived from the inescapable laws of physics.  The mass of my recliner had slowed down Time for me.  For anyone outside the pull of my recliner’s tush-captivating charms, my wife and daughter for example, Time flowed at its normal rate.  A tick of the clock for me corresponded to an hour, perhaps two, for everyone else.

The answer was obvious to me.  Should I present this argument to my wife?  The evidence was right in front of her.  She couldn’t dispute it.  When I saw the look on her face, however, I suspected this explanation might not pass muster.  I decided to retreat to my fallback position.  “Time got away from me,” I said.

Head tilt.  Tight smile.  “Slipped through your hands again?”

I nodded.  Time seemed so innocuous, a harmless fellow who didn’t like to be pinned down, a good-time buddy who never meant harm to anyone.  How wrong I was.

Devious Tactics

I didn’t yet understand the extent of Time’s plan for world, or at least my, domination, until a string of late appearances at church, work, and other social engagements caught my attention.  What was happening?  Was I to blame?

I gave myself plenty of Time to get ready, didn’t I?  Time should have been right where I left him when I started my tasks, yet he was always missing at critical moments.  What happened to him?  Where did he go?

There was always one more article in the New York Post sports section to read, one more minute of Turner Classic Movies to watch, or some other tiny task needing my attention.  It wasn’t as though I hadn’t discussed them with Time though; he was always fully aware of what was going on.

“Go ahead,” he would promise.  “You’ve got plenty of me.”

Naturally, I never gave him another thought.  He had given me his assurance and I had taken him at his word.

Was I too trusting?  Was that my real flaw, not this alleged lack of punctuality?  Was it just because I was a kind and decent person willing to give Time the benefit of the doubt, and that it had nothing to do with being an absent-minded, inconsiderate louse, who consistently obeyed the slightest juvenile impulse?

That had to be it.

A Bitter Realization

With that tidbit of self-knowledge tucked away in the old back-pocket, I felt very confident putting my new time management skills to the test one lazy Sunday morning.

With only twenty minutes to go before mass started, and the church a ten minute drive from the house, I looked up from the New York Post’s online sports pages, and gave my armpits a sniff.  Yee-ouch!  I would definitely need a shower this morning.  Did I have enough Time?

I wouldn’t wash my hair or shave, and I’d wind two watches with one stroke by brushing my teeth while the water got hot.  I checked my watch again.  Nine minutes and thirty seconds.  I’d cut it close.  Should I?  My mind wavered.

Slicing through my reverie, the voice of Time brought me back to my version of reality.  He was standing two steps from the recliner, wearing his usual jaunty top hat and smiling.  “You’ve got me to burn,” he said, and fetched me a saucy wink.

By gads, I thought.  He’s right.  I do.  As soon as I finish this game-day analysis of the Jets’ chances, I’ll be on my merry way.

As we left for church that morning, already several minutes late, I realized that Time had deceived me again.  He had conned me into putting my faith in him and then deserted me.  Why, oh why, did I trust him?

The Last Spring

Time stayed out of my way for a while after that last rift.  He knew I was upset.  Why taunt me?  I didn’t see him again until a month had passed.

The latest Avengers movie had just been released, and I wasn’t going to miss a second of it.  My wife, despite not being a fan of superhero antics, was willing to go along.  In case it wasn’t already obvious, one thing my wife despises is tardiness, especially for movies, even superhero frolics.  She had to be in her seat, popcorn and Coke Zero in hand, before the lights dimmed.  A recipe for punctuality, right?

There was only one problem.  I had just begun to read an article about the Mets’ low A prospects.  Baseball season was only four months away, and I didn’t want to get caught in a state of ignorance, not knowing anything about teenage Venezuelan shortstops.  The Avengers were waiting.  What to do?

And there he was again, Time, not looking a day older.  “Hey, I’m on your side,” he said.  “Take your own sweet me, and spend as much of me as you’d like.”

You might think, given past behavior, I would be somewhat skeptical of Time’s promises.  I might ignore this bad actor and trust that inner voice telling me to get my tush in gear.  But we know my real flaw, don’t we?  I’m too trusting.

“Thanks, Time,” I said.

Given the green light, I pushed on and memorized the batting averages of all of the Mets’ possible future outfield candidates.  Naturally, by the time I finished we had no chance of making the movie.

I looked over to where Time had been sitting.  Gone.  I searched the room, glanced over both shoulders, shouted for him: “Time!  Get back here!”

I ransacked the house, running upstairs to check the bedrooms then down to the basement, tearing open closet doors, and checking behind furniture.  Somehow, Time had escaped again, leaving me the innocent victim of his schemes.

If only my wife would understand.

Out to Get Me

There’s only one explanation for Time’s frontal assault on my punctuality.  He’s out to get me.  Time has it in for me.  I must have offended him somehow, and now I was paying the price.  That had to be it. There was no other reason.  This was personal.

I know what you’re thinking.  Tardy AND paranoid?

Wouldn’t you be if Time were out to get you?  I’m not the one who decided to escalate this confrontation.  I’m not the one refusing to keep his word.  That’s not on my shoulders.  It’s Time.  Don’t you see?

How could I battle against such a formidable adversary?  Time’s ability to fly was a decided advantage.  He was fast as well.  As far as I knew, no one had ever won a race against Time, nor had anyone survived the test of Time.  What hope did I have?

Time: A Slippery Fellow

Make no mistake, Time is a slippery fellow.  He’s always one step ahead.  Trying to catch him is like hanging on to a greased pig.  For the sake of my own sanity, I had to give up any thoughts I had of going to war against him.  Why fight a losing battle?

My wife stood behind me.

“Yes, dear?” I asked.

“Weren’t you supposed to take out the garbage?”

Yes, I was.  And so many other things as well.  I shrugged my shoulders.  “Time got away from me.”

Long sigh.  She rolled her eyes and padded out of the den.  It looked like she was given up the fight as well.

And you?  How does Time escape your grasp?