On My Way

It was 6:25 p.m. and I sat in a coffee shop immersed in my work. I’d ignored the six o’clock alarm set on my cell phone and kept tapping away at the keyboard, every five minutes telling myself just another five minutes, just another five minutes. The problem was I was supposed to be home for dinner at 6:30 and I was a half hour’s drive away. What to do?

I had no time machine at my disposal, no handy wormhole to facilitate instantaneous travel from point to point, no relativistic spaceship allowing me to travel home at the speed of light. What could I do? There was only one solution. What choice did I have? I had to lie.

I unlocked my phone and typed a text message to my wife: On my way. This is my favorite text message, because of its beautiful ambiguity. I don’t mention where I am, or how long it will take to get home. All I’ve really done is acknowledge a state of mind, that I’m mentally on my way, which I am. Almost. Kind of. Sort of.

My wife was probably making dinner, her cell phone on the table in the living room. By the time she retrieved my message, another five minutes would have passed. For all intents and purposes, I had travelled back in time. Now that I was on my way, I could sit back with my half-full, large latte and get some work done. Just five minutes more. That was all I needed.

Only ten minutes later, I was finally ready to go, but not before I sent another text message: I’ll be there in 10 minutes. This was a little more committal, but how could my wife hold it against me if I went over by a minute or two? Or fifteen? Or thirty? I shut the laptop’s cover and wound up my power cord. No more lollygagging, I told myself as I polished off the last of my latte. Suddenly, it dawned on me: I hadn’t read my sports blogs yet. Sigh. I opened up the laptop.

Another ten minutes and I was driving home. I had counted on a clear highway, devoid of cars and traffic to make up time. This strategy never worked, but that never stopped me from counting on it. It was my naturally optimistic nature. As the volume of homeward-bound stragglers forced me to slow, I sent my final text message: Stuck in traffic. This was the pièce de résistance, the cherry on the cake. It was the ubiquitous explanation that would excuse everything. How could she argue with it? After all, not that long ago I was “on my way” and I would “be there in ten minutes”. Surely, it was the traffic’s fault. It was only this darn Austin traffic that kept me from being on time.

I made it home at – aw, what does time matter anyway? I was a little late, but according to Glover’s theory of relativity, my text messages should have slowed down the passage of time, right? Everything would be fine, right? By the way, was that my dinner on the not-so-welcome mat?  If you have a better way to handle lateness – I mean, time travel – let me know.

I saw this post on lateness by Tim Urban of “Wait but Why” a little while ago.  Funny stuff.