Time is elastic to me. It stretches like a rubber band, pulled taught at both ends by nimble fingers, then suddenly, it snaps, contracts, smarts. Some people “master” time, harnessing it to use it productively, but for me, time has no master. It is my friend, my enemy. It is single grains of sand falling through an hourglass, as Hemingway wrote, “slowly, then all at once.”
I can’t hold time in my hand or in my head. Just this week I was a contestant in a speech contest and for some reason I had in my head that I needed to be there at 11:15 in the morning. I went to my usual 8:30-9:15 workout, came home, made a leisurely waffle breakfast for my son and his friend. After their breakfast was ready, I made some eggs for myself, then sat down at the computer to surf while I nibbled at my plate. I decided to print out the flyer for the contest in case my Ironman-training husband got home in time to attend. I printed it and sat surfing my Facebook page, knowing that since it was just 10:00 a.m. I had plenty of time to get ready—even though I was still in my sweaty workout clothes.
While waiting for a page to load, I glanced at the flyer. Something caught my eye. There, in bold letters it said:
Contestant Briefing: 10:30 a.m.
Contest Start: 11:00 a.m.
I glanced at the clock on the computer. 10:04. I looked back down at the paper. 10:30. It would take me ten minutes to get there, speeding, and if the stoplights were in my favor. I jumped up, ran to my bedroom, stripping as I went (thank goodness my teenage boys were not there), jumped into my three-minute shower, threw on some nice clothes, blew-dry my hair in record time, smacked on foundation...then, took a deep breath and s-l-o-w-l-y put on my eyeliner (because if you try to do it quickly, you end up looking like Alice Cooper). I grabbed my props, shot out the door and made it there in record time. Of course, they were running behind and I was fine, but that's beside the point.
I suppose many people experience time as I do: it passes like molasses when I'm bored, but when I'm engrossed in something, it's like a freight train on a mission and I couldn't slow it down if I tried. Like times with good friends or at parties where I never want them to end. I could stay up all night because I am so enjoying the moment—usually singing 1980’s karaoke songs. My dear husband, though, who asked at 11 p.m. if we could go home, is suddenly not happy that three seconds later it's one in the morning. I can tell by the look on his face that I will not be singing "one more" karaoke song.
Having kids has made me more acutely aware of time than ever. I remember when they were little, screaming and whining, or when I was changing a never-ending stream of diapers, or when I thought my youngest would NEVER turn five so he could go to school, well-meaning older women would say "enjoy it, it goes so fast!" Fast? You've got to be kidding me. Endless days of Disney movies, and backyard baseball games, dirty clothes, and nerve-frazzling arguments seemed to make time drag, melting one day into the next. How could they possibly think it was going by fast?
I should have known that age would trump youth. I look at my giant man-child who at 17 knows everything and nothing and I can't believe he painted the stick figure framed in my room that says
FOR M
O
M
because his three- (or was it four?) year-old mind hadn't planned any space to be able to paint the letters next to each other. I wonder how his 18-year-old self will go away next year and begin fending for himself.
And I look at my 15-year-old boy-man who impresses me everyday by knowing so well who he is and what he wants. I spent so many years and so much time frustrated by his straining against my will for him and now that strong will of his is creating a life that he can call his own.
Where did my babies go?
And I look at Jim, my husband. Was it really 27 long years ago when I as a teenage girl used my feminine wiles to get him to ask me out as he changed my tire at a gas station? Looking back there is a lightning-fast slide show of happiness, sadness, joy, frustration, arguing, sharing, and mostly, thankfully, love.
It isn't hard to picture us as my parents, over 55 years into marriage, enjoying each other in a peaceful life, having little bickerings over the same old things. Or as Jim's dad, widowed by his wife, Joanne, after 35 years of travel, golf, and raising their kids. I wonder how it feels at 87 to know that there are fewer days ahead than behind. But I know I won't have to wonder for long.
When I wake up tomorrow, I will be there.
