I got in a fight with Time last week. It was actually the remnant of a recurring fight we’ve been having recently, perhaps since 2010. No, it’s not the usual, “stop rushing me” thing. Time will wait for me to do my hair and my inability to choose and outfit in the morning. It’s really the “Time, why do you have to be such an f-ing hypocrite?” thing that gets under my skin.
He makes me live by his rules, slice the onion according to his whims — diagonally, no the other diagonally! It’s down to how we spend the seconds, the minutes, the days, the weeks, months, seasons, years. Oh, and don’t even get me started on decades. This all started with the “aughts are behind us,” post-recession collective sigh bullshit. At least when VH1 does decades, we get neon parachute pants and nostalgic montages of Clueless, Vanilla Ice, and Michael Jackson’s better days. Instead, we have twin towers, Saddam Hussein, G.W. Bush, and a financial crisis so scrapingly traumatic that we still can’t come up with a proper name. Time wants us to think that it’s our show, that if, collectively, we as a people agree on a set of rules, he’ll will play nice.
Time might actually be the best negotiator I know. Lets me think I’m winning, practically loads up my arsenal with calendars and planners and schedules and circadian rhythms. But he knows it’s not about winning or losing. At the end of the day, he knows that I need him, and that he’ll be just fine without me.