But Now I Don’t Care as Much

I’ve written before about my dread of being late, an affliction known as “chronophobia.” Just the thought that I might be late for an appointment, a reservation, or a doctor’s visit makes my stomach roil and my knees shake. Genetically speaking, I’m not sure how I got it, but it’s something I’ve passed down to my daughter (she most definitely did not inherit it from Barb, who has perfect timing).

Despite my constant attempts to always be where I need to be when I need to be, the last month has had me on the edge of my timeliness parameters three times. Surprisingly, I survived every incident.

The first episode was on an evening when Barb and I were out to see the new Mission: Impossible flick. Good seats were sold out at our favorite theater, so we booked tickets at the Randhurst Mall in Mt. Prospect, a little beyond our normal movie zone. For a pre-theater dinner, we chose Northbrook’s Charlie Beinlich’s, our favorite hamburger shack.

We reached the restaurant parking lot confident that we had our timing just right. Unexpectedly, the service at Beinlich’s was slow that night. We wolfed down our burgers when they arrived (I brought my own gluten-free bun), threw our money on the table, and raced off, knowing we were impossibly late for the 7:15 showtime.

As Barb is apt to remind me, there are always lots of previews before a feature film starts, and more than a handful of ads, too. The 7:15 time was more of a suggestion than a deadline. But I knew we were running very late, and that if we missed any of the actual movie, we would struggle to follow the plot. With a mad dash through the parking lot, we made it into our seats just as the movie began. Notwithstanding our timing success, we still failed to follow the plot—was there one?—but Tom Cruise looked very cool wing walking on his biplane.

My second late shift this month was 100% my fault. I was scheduled to play pickleball with friends at 10:00 a.m., but was woolgathering at my computer. By the time I looked at my watch, it was 9:50. I sent a quick “Sorry, guys” group text and hit the road, flop sweat coating my face. I was fifteen minutes late, but the boys didn’t seem to mind. I even had one of my better days on the court.

Strike three for me was last Saturday. I planned on attending the No Kings rally in Buffalo Grove and left home in plenty of time. When I reached the designated corner, the crowd was surprisingly sparse. A friendly police officer on a bike rode up to us and let us know we were at the wrong location for the rally. I ran back to my car, shot out of the parking lot, and made it to the right spot at exactly noon, anti-king poster in hand. Of course, being one of hundreds at the rally, it really wouldn’t have mattered if I were a few minutes late. The only one who would have cared was me.

So now I am trying to think of time in a new way. Yes, being on time is a virtue, but in most instances, a few minutes one way or another won’t really matter. I can skip the heart palpitations and acid reflux. After all, Tom Cruise won’t even know if I show up late for the next Mission: Impossible or Top Gun 3!