If you had asked me to describe myself one year ago, I would have led with this: I am that person who is always late. I could have also said I am 5ft 7in and love coriander, but then you wouldn’t have been forewarned: being friends with me involves a lot of waiting. Ugh, sorry in advance.
Then this happened. One day, I had an appointment just before meeting friends for dinner. When it ended early, I went straight to the restaurant and waited at the bar for everyone else. Ordinarily, I would have rolled in 10 minutes late, drenched in sweat and remorse. I would have been mortified to be that person, once again, who was the last to show and the reason why our table had been given away to a “complete” party. After blabbering a bunch of lies to my friends about traffic and first-time Uber drivers, I would have spent the rest of the night berating myself for being, well, me.
My friends, too, would have expected nothing less from me. But on this night, I was someone else – I was the epitome of cool, sipping a dirty martini, with hardly a hair out of place. I was early and I felt happy, which was a really odd sensation for me at this point in the evening (pre-bread basket). This feeling was too good – I was never going back.
What I never would have guessed was how my overall wellbeing went hand-in-hand with breaking this cycle. And it makes sense. How could I ever feel good about myself if I was constantly disappointing myself? Turns out I didn’t need my weekly therapy (which I was always late to, anyway) where I projected all these issues on to my mother (classic scapegoat). The fix was right in front of me the whole time: the clock.
I just had to wrestle with it. Twenty-four hours seems like plenty of time to be given every single day to do life. But that number gets whittled down to about 17 when you factor in sleep. Few of us have the bandwidth to be high functioning for that entire time. For me, I have four very productive hours, usually early in the morning, which is when I write. I used to give those hours away to social media, the news, and to seemingly urgent tasks like cleaning out my sock drawer. But now I use my mornings to get work done so the afternoons don’t get backed up like Gatwick airport on a Friday afternoon. That leaves the hours after lunch to focus on things that don’t require much brain power, like paying bills and getting depressed about said bills.
I play tricks on myself, too. If I am supposed to be somewhere at 7pm, I tell myself 6.45pm. That way, if I am a minute or two late – old habits die hard – I am still early.
Most importantly, I drop whatever I am doing one hour before I am supposed to leave the house. I don’t use the time to primp, though I probably should. Instead, I check the weather (umbrella?), transit (am I in for any surprises?) and mental space (should I be going out at all?) to get ready for the night.
I am not perfect. Every now and then, something comes up and all of my strategies to be on time go by the wayside. But because it happens so infrequently, I don’t immediately go to the narrative that I am failing again. Instead, I am just honest about why I am late and move on. Man, oh man, is it liberating.
But here’s the thing: once I saw that I could change, I felt empowered to keep going. I started to notice other things about myself that could use a bit of sprucing up. Have you ever bought a new couch and then realised everything else in the room is in desperate need of some updating? Drinking was one of those things for me. Once I was no longer arriving in a fit of nerves and sweat, I didn’t feel the pull to alcohol like I had in the past. That giant chill pill known as a glass or two or three of rioja wasn’t needed in the same way. I am not a teetotaler by any means, but I am also not hanging around for last orders. Because I am more present and engaged, I am having more fun, too. So much for my long-held theory: he who drinks the most, enjoys the most.
When I quit being late, I started showing up for myself. It was about time.
