Thursday, October 20, 2011


Today was one of those overscheduled days, where I had to be watching the clock from the very first breath of my first yoga pose of the morning, all the way through my early class, a meeting with my college president, the bus ride between Cascadia and the UW, my second stint teaching of the afternoon, and even the bike ride home.

No sir, I don’t like.

Back when I was a callow youth, sometime in the 20th century, I used to feed on this sort of thing. I recall one day, for instance, must have been 1985; I was living in Los Angeles, eking out a meager sustenance with at least three jobs—syndicated radio production, temporary office worker, and aspiring comedy writer—and my schedule required me to race back and forth across the city, getting from West Hollywood to Downtown and then up to Burbank with negative numbers of minutes between my destinations.

I actually had to go backwards through time to get where I needed to go when I needed to get there.

The heart-pounding thrill of it all was thrilling to me; snaking through traffic like a madman was my idea of fun. Having no time to think, much less to eat or excrete made me feel like my life really mattered and that I was destined for great things, some of which I was already doing.

Nowadays, by contrast, I despise being in a hurry. I’d rather get out of bed three hours before I have to be somewhere only an hour away just so I don’t have feel that sensation that I’m almost running behind. I’m one of those old people who shows up at the airport for their flight two and half hours ahead of its schedule departure; I even typically give myself 90 minutes of preparation in advance of heading off to teach a class.

Truth be told, I even allocated nearly 10 whole minutes to write this.


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