There is a compulsion to be early, and it runs in my family.  Perhaps it’s genetic, I don’t know.  But in our house growing up, timeliness was very, very close to godliness, and we were never late for church, or anything, as far as I can remember.  On the other hand, during stressful times, I’ve been known to be too early:  a week early for a play, although I was welcome to stay for a different show; a day early for a flight; my luggage was checked from SFO to LaGuardia, but there was no seat on the plane for me.  The woman at United suggested I troll the other airlines and see if there was space on another flight. American Airlines honored my ticket and I was reunited with my suitcase on the other side of the continent.  Sadly, I’ve not outgrown this behavior. Just recently I arrived at a party (potluck) a few minutes ahead of the invited time. The hosts, while gracious, were not ready, and it was a full twenty/twenty-five minutes before other guests appeared. Awkward.

 Being early would seem like virtue, and it’s hard to appreciate the downside, except for, cumulatively, all those minutes and hours lost waiting. This compulsion has become more of a problem as I’ve gotten older – not that I have changed, but the world has.  A faster, more complicated, more congested society does not run exactly on time, and I remain one of the minority of early birds.  If it’s a matter of adaptation, I’m not doing so well, and it’s a question, so far, about my children.  My husband, on the other hand, has been late most of his life, most of the time.  Partly his nature and partly, I suspect, a Middle Eastern mentality about time, and who waits for whom.  This chronic lateness was not apparent during our courtship, the “good foot” being forward, but became a sticky issue soon after we married — especially being late for my family functions, where the older early birds liked to get somewhere early, celebrate early, and leave early.  Unlikely as it seems, my husband has changed his ways: partly due to his love for me and the strength of my compulsion, and partly due to having to get to hockey games on time.  It’s a powerful combination. 

 And now he knows, as I do, what it’s like to get somewhere early, and wait.  Unless you consider it a zen kind of experience, it’s a bit of a waste of valuable time.  In retrospect, coming from a large family, the intolerance for lateness was sort of a necessity: we couldn’t all be five minutes late, or we be an hour late anywhere.  Mostly, it’s not a zen kind of experience, and the extra minutes are wished away, a terrible sin. 

My late arriving friends shouldn’t worry.  I’m not judgmental about their lateness in the same way I am about mine: I expect it from others.  And I have developed a reasonable buffer of lateness: after living in NYC for three years, I learned the near impossibility of arriving on time, no matter how well planned the trip. Five minutes one way or the other doesn’t bother me now; even the occasional ten minutes I can survive without hyperventilating.  In my later years, I have come to realize that the symbolic value of time, and waiting, is different for different people.  Thank God, not everyone has my compulsion. 

 Hurry up and wait – it’s the story of my life.  I can see the irrationality of this behavior at times, but I cannot seem to change it. For me, it symbolizes, I think, at the most basic level, respect for others and respect for God himself; I somehow have the idea that His divine patience is not everlasting.  Still, I wish I could get back some of those minutes…..