Tuesday, April 5, 2011
There was a time when I was never late.
I was always early – really early.
Because I get anxious when I am going to be late – and grouchy – I always leave myself plenty of time to get where I need to go.
I think it’s rude to be late. I think it shows the person you are keeping waiting that her time is less valuable then yours. I would rather plan for variables – traffic, accidents – leave at least a half a hour earlier then necessary, bring something to do and wait in a parking lot until it’s time to meet the person. If it’s an appointment or an interview, sitting in a person's waiting room for 15 minutes shows you valuable their time and are punctual.
Then I met my husband and I was often late.
He likes to do those last-minute things, you know, water the garden, check to make sure everything is locked, those kinds of things, 15 minutes after we were supposed to leave. It ticked me off every time. So then I started telling him I wanted to leave a hour before we actually did. And I wouldn’t get in the car until he was heading that way himself.
Then we had our guy. If it’s just the two of us, I can get him and myself ready, load the car and feed the cat and be on our way in time for almost everything – except daycare.
This morning I asked our daycare provider if I could drop our guy off early. She said she would get up 15 minutes earlier then normal to take us. And then we were late – by 10 minutes. I felt awful when I dropped him off, terrible as we were driving to work and not that great now.
My apologizes again.