“Much may be done in those little shreds and patches of time which every day produces, and which most men throw away.” —Charles Caleb Colton
What is the hang-up? Why is it that I can never quite catch the hang of time? It’s either too slow or too fast, I rarely feel as though time and I are simpatico. There was a time when I thought that I was the problem. But, thanks to an ever-growing sense of self, I’m beginning to think that Father Time was beaten up a lot for his lunch money back when he was just Pre-Pubescent Time. As a result, he is seeing to it that we never feel comfortable in our skin…I shouldn’t say we, maybe he’s just messing with me. For instance: it seems like every thirty (30) seconds there is a new movie released in the “Twilight” franchise, which causes much consternation and near-mental-health-melt-downs from your fave-rave blogger. On the other hand, it seems like “Barnes and Noble Classics” will never get around to releasing an affordable paperback edition of “The Anarchist Cookbook”. Explain the disparity, Father Time! I doubt “The Anarchist Cookbook” guys are draggin’ ass; those Kats are go-getters.
As a child I never gave this idea much of a thought, I was just continually disappointed by how long it took for my birthday to arrive every year, or how slowly the school day dragged on and on and on. Time was just a painful reality. This is starting to feel like a “Wonder Years” monologue…but I swear there is a point to which I am stretching. Maybe I’m reading too many blogs of late. Camping trips would just fly by, and I would never have the stones to call Father Time out…Why The Face, Father Time? I’m older now, and I’ve come to realize that after a certain point in one’s life, having fun ceases its duties as a prerequisite for the act of time flying. Nowadays, time just simply flies.
I have nothing going on…meaning: my life is not punctuated by events. I am a stay-at-home dad who goes out with his friends a couple of times a week, but I have no place where I have to be at any given time during the week. This does strange things to your perception of time. It can, at times, feel as though you are adrift in the Pacific doldrums of life…waiting, wondering: “Is there really a mass of plastic out here the size of Texas?” Which seems random, but the doldrums make you wish for any number of things that fall well short of interesting, just to break up the day. The other day, I caught a glimpse of my youngest daughter, who is three (3) years old (she looks two (2)—but she is not) running around the corner into her room, her tiny legs clad in some appropriately patterned pajama bottoms, and I thought: “This is all changing before my eyes, and I’ll never get that moment back”…that little, insignificant moment. These are the moments around which my life is now built. I’m cool with that.
In order to be cool with that, there falls upon me a greater responsibility to live in the moment…to not allow myself to be involved in epic matches of wit with the gate-keeper of occasion. In that spirit, I call a truce…I don’t know who took your milk money Father Time, but I’m not interested in the wrestling match any longer. I’m just going to relish every moment that my thick Irish skull resolves to recognize.