I am NOTORIOUS for being late. When my friend is running late for work, she calls it “Lynette-ing”. I’m not late to everything, but I’m always late to work. Mornings aren’t for me. It’s always been a character flaw – I was late for grade school every morning, late for high school, late for college, late for work. Late, late, late. In my last performance review at work, one of the “goals” I was given was to get to work no more than 30 minutes late. I did well for a month or two, until I was back in my old hour-late pattern.
During a typical night, I’m woken a few times between 2:00 and 4:00, so I’ve just fallen back asleep when I should be getting up – making it nearly impossible for me to drag my sorry butt out of bed. I’ll usually land up getting out of bed 45 minutes or an hour past when I should have.
Last night was thankfully different. The cats woke me at 11:30, then I slept until almost 5:00 when they woke me again. By that time, I realized I could just get up. I’d be getting out of bed about 45 minutes before my alarm went off. So, there I was… two hours ahead of my usual schedule. It felt pretty great. I hydrated, medicated, and fed the cats, got myself ready – I was even making great time.
It didn’t matter. I got to work 15 minutes late. It’s like some eerie black hole or time warp. I just CAN’T get to work on time. It’s as though the universe won’t allow it. You know those sci-fi shows where the hero can time travel, but has to avoid running into himself or he’ll destroy the time-space continuum? Perhaps if I was to work on time, I’d ruin some delicate balance. I don’t know. I do know there was a better selection of breakfast pastries at work at this earlier time.
Life of the Lintee Bean 