Fast and Slow

One of the things I don’t like about having a regular job is that I often look forward to the weekend. It seems weird to me that I am eager for the days of my life to run out; I find myself regularly wishing on, say, Tuesday, that it was already Friday, even if it meant that I’d trade the experience of the days for the outcome of them.

Conversely, come the weekend, I want time to drag. For example, it’s hardly Friday evening, but already, I’m wishing it were just the afternoon so I’d have the entire weekend ahead of me.

One would think if I were living entirely authentically and wholeheartedly that there wouldn’t be a hierarchy of days; every moment would be as full and rich as every other one; I certainly wouldn’t want to trade today for next week if I could.

I suppose this is perfectly natural in the modern world; kids do it all the time, for one thing. Mimi has intimated that she’d be willing to forgo the time between now and her birthday, for instance, if that day would arrive more quickly. Everyone remembers counting the days until Christmas and wishing they would just fly by like those old movie calendar pages being swept away by the wind.

The first time I remember remarking at the strangeness of this desire was in high school; I had gotten tickets to a Jethro Tull concert a few months in advance. It struck me as odd that I couldn’t wait for the day to arrive even though I had days of experience in between.

As I get older and my time remaining gets shorter, I’m doubly impressed by the irony of wanting time to speed up. On my deathbed, I’m sure I’ll wish I had more time left; certainly I ought to savor the time I do have for all it’s worth.

Even so, I sure am looking forward to summer vacation.