On the night I came into this world, I was three weeks past my due date. I’ve been late for just about everything ever since.
Not just the normal stuff, like late to church or late turning in a college paper or late having my oil changed or late getting home from work. I’m pretty sure I still owe my brother a present from his birthday back in November. And then there was the year I sent out Christmas cards after the following Valentine’s Day.
When I told my wife the subject of this piece, she nodded in recognition and pointed out that the only event to which I’d ever arrived on time was our wedding. Which really isn’t fair — I was also on time to the births of both our sons, as well as … uh, okay, I guess that’s about it.
But there is one good thing about being late so often: on those rare occasions when I do show up on time — when I arrived early for one of our dates when we were both still in high school, or when I get home from work in plenty of time for dinner — the look of joy on her face is just priceless.
Yeah, I know, I really shouldn’t just settle for making lowering my wife’s expectations so that mere competence looks like a victory. I really should get myself together and start being on time, all the time.
And I’ll do just that. Any day now.