IIf you had asked me to describe myself a year ago, I would have said this: I am that person who is always late. I could also say I’m 5’7″ and like cilantro, but then you won’t be forewarned: Becoming friends with me takes a lot of waiting. Uh, sorry in advance.
Then this happened. One day I had a date before dinner with friends. It ended early, so I went straight to the restaurant and waited for others at the bar. Typically, I’m 10 minutes late, covered in sweat and regret. I would be mortified if I was once again the last person to show up and the reason our table was given away to the “full” party. After telling my friends a bunch of lies about traffic and being a first-time Uber driver, I would spend the entire night beating myself up for being me.
My friends would expect the same from me. But on this night, I was a different person—I was the epitome of cool, drinking dirty martinis and barely a hair out of place. I arrived early and I was delighted, which is a very strange feeling for me at this time of night (pre-bread basket). It felt so good – I could never go back.
What I never would have imagined is how my overall health goes hand in hand with breaking this cycle. This makes sense. How can I possibly feel good about myself if I keep letting myself down? It turned out that I didn’t need weekly therapy (I was always late anyway) and I projected all of these problems onto my mother (the classic scapegoat). The solution was right in front of me all along: the clock.
I just had to fight it. Twenty-four hours a day seems to be enough to live on. But if you factor in sleep, that number drops to about 17. Few of us have enough bandwidth to operate efficiently the entire time. For me, I have four very productive hours, usually in the early morning, when I write. I used to spend this time on social media, news, and seemingly urgent tasks like cleaning out my sock drawer. But now I use the mornings to get work done so the afternoons aren’t held up like Friday afternoons at Gatwick. That way, the time after lunch can be focused on things that don’t require a lot of mental energy, like paying bills and feeling frustrated about them.
I also play with myself. If I’m going somewhere at 7pm, I tell myself 6.45pm. This way, even if I’m a minute or two late—old habits die hard—I’ll still be early.
Most importantly, I drop what I’m doing an hour before I leave the house. I don’t take the time to dress myself up, even though I probably should. Instead, I prepare for the evening by checking the weather (bring an umbrella?), traffic (will I encounter any surprises?), and mental space (should I go out?).
I’m not perfect. Every now and then, something happens and all my on-time strategies fall by the wayside. But because it happens so rarely, I won’t immediately tell the story of my failure again. Instead, I just be honest about why I’m late and move on. Man, oh man, is this liberating?
But here’s the thing: Once I saw that I could change, I felt empowered to keep going. I started noticing other things about myself that needed some polish. Have you ever bought a new sofa and then realized that everything else in the room was in dire need of an update? Drinking is one of those things for me. When I no longer arrive nervous and sweaty, I no longer feel the pull of alcohol that I used to. Nor does the giant calming pill of a glass or two or three of Rioja. I’m not a teetotaler by any means, but I also don’t hang around for last-minute orders. Because I’m more focused and focused, I’m also having more fun. So much for my long-held theory: He who drinks the most enjoys it the most.
When I stopped being late, I started showing up on my own. It’s time.
