I’m not sure where to start because even I don’t know exactly what happened. But honesty is good for the soul, so here I go. I hope this doesn’t change your opinion of me.
I’m hardly ever late anymore. I know. I can’t believe it either. But this morning my hubby and I were buckled up and backing out of the driveway at 10:14. “Look at us,” he said pleasantly, “leaving the house a full minute early.”
Well, actually, the clock in our truck is one minute slow, but I let it ride and acted like it was no big deal. You know, played my cards close to the chest. Not because I’m proud, but because I have no idea how it keeps happening. Nobody was tense. No blood was shed. The bed was made, the dishwasher running, and we didn’t forget anything. We left on time and I had all my clothes on.
Weird. And kind of sad, really.
Secretly, I’ve taken a certain amount of pleasure in my tardy identity all these years. I hate showing up early just so somebody else can be a control freak and start a meeting on time. And don’t get me started on going to the movies. Did you know there’s a theater full of people who show up a half hour early just to hog the good seats? Once in a while my hubby tricks me into doing that, but that means all my Junior Mints are gone before the previews even get started. There I sit—snackless—through a whole movie.
Really ticks me off.
So, I’ve stayed true to my inner clock most of my life, arriving flushed and apologetic, but in full command of my own control freak version of time. Until recently. Suddenly, I’m taking an extra ten minutes to gather myself and my stuff and walk out the door a tiny bit early. Early. I just learned how to spell that word. Not frantic, not panicked, not manic. Just . . . prompt.
I’m scared to death I’m losing my mind.
Yesterday I arrived right on time for a doctor appointment and waited thirty minutes before I was seen. Can you imagine if I’d arrived thirty minutes early like those weird movie buffs? I’d have sat there in his calm little office for an hour with nothing to do but lose myself in the book I brought along.
How do people live like this?
Last week I was ready to leave fifteen minutes early—which was really right on time since we needed to take a fifteen minute detour on the way to our actual appointment. I walked into the kitchen to tell my husband I was ready, and there he stood, ironing a shirt he didn’t need until next week. Just like that, we left fifteen minutes late. And it was all his fault. That’s like . . . okay, well it’s the first time it’s ever happened.
I think I figured it out.
It’s menopause. I heard everything changes in midlife. Men get cold and women get hot and men get emotional and women get—bossier, and women go to work and men retire to stay home.
And now, just as I’m figuring out how to show up on time, my husband gave up his day job and set all the clocks in the house back an hour. I think he’s trying to undermine my new success.
Oh. So that’s what ‘menopause’ means—the pause of men.
It’s his turn to be tardy now. Crap.
Thanks to Francisco Vargas for this beautiful photo. The original can be viewed at the link which follows.
https://www.flickr.com/photos/haripako/4880374152/in/photolist-8rgccW-BJMcVe-Nak8mi-vDugHd-NamVXn-MZ9UhQ-MZUB4J-MhuANt-N565F2-zDp3kj-wivNcn-84ZkBB-9wzJ99-5Z9irC-5Ui2bM-5XVg1q-5Fr8PA-65m2wy-6mQFYF-68C1fY-6f8CCJ-6nN8f7-6dk6qj-6FQd8N-6qk8RY-6p3yey-67ht6z-6hs7os-6kUtp2-6pLuV6-5P7E6t-GNmb4Y-5U1djQ-6kknMf-5UGWLa-5Ya9f9-6ehjXp-6oeAA5-HZRho3-6o2GAu-89KoCw-51k3dC-W6h1bb-b2LGsZ-61sMmB-byTH51-62WTwN-6fDCkL-5VyEeE-6bBmwy
No comments:
Post a Comment