If I'm waiting for you, I am anxious. Not just anxious, twitchy. Twitchy, anxious & biting on my cheek. Checking my phone every 30 seconds & becoming progressively more of a coiled ball of rage.
I loathe it when people are late to meet me.
I was once friends with a girl (chronically late) who told me that she hated to keep groups waiting. However, if she was meeting a single person she had no problems keeping them standing around, thumb firmly planted in ass, for up to 30 minutes. Then, and only then, would she consider herself late. Something about how group time was more valuable than individual time. I couldn't hear the last portion of her explanation over the sound of my teeth gnashing through my cheek.
This rational makes virtually no sense to me. Although I would sooner french kiss a hobo than keep a group waiting, the prospect of keeping a single person staring at their watch is completely unconscionable.
The issue with this state of affairs is that I am one of a dying breed. The prim ladies who show up to appointments 15 minutes early. The Grandfather that screams that the plane ticket specified to be at the airport 2 hours ahead of time for a domestic flight. The oldsters. The ones that respect time because they realize how little of it we actually have.
To make matters worse, I live in Los Angeles. This is the capital of fashionably late. According to everyone who lives in this city, everything is 20 minutes away, traffic is as light as a feather & leaving when you are due to arrive (or 30 minutes after) is de rigeur. It turns out that I'm the rude one for showing up when the party is still setting up. When the restaurant staff is stubbing out the last cigarette before their shift begins. You get the idea.
I show up early. My friends show up late. The misery is compounded & I end up screaming that they are a series of expletives. I've made people cry before. I'm not exactly proud of that...not exactly ashamed, either.
So here I stand. Early. Alone. Seething.
I've realized that all of my lecturing & expletives have done nothing to make my friends show up on time. Now they're simply more creative with their excuses. I realized something that hurt - I was the one who was going to have to change.
I started small. 10 minutes here. 5 minutes there. Trying not to check the clock. Waiting with shoes on & purse in hand until I could leave late enough to be "normal". Taking deep breaths & telling myself that it was ok. Whoever I'm going to meet is going to be there after me regardless of what time I arrive.
That's right. I freak out about being late on purpose.
So now I'm there. I'm the late one. The one with the excuse ("Traffic! It was only supposed to take 20 minutes!"). The person who tries to buy their way back to good graces ("First round is on me! What? It's your 2nd round? I have some catching up to do!!"). The asshole. The unconscionable putz.
It doesn't feel better, but at least I don't feel like a relic from a more respectful time. Instead I'm part of a new generation. The "me" generation. The late ones.
Pass the Xanax. I'll be there in 20 minutes!
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