Something you should know about the day I was born: I was born two weeks early. It is the only time in my life I have ever been prompt.
I am not a punctual person. For me, Time is an elusive, abstract notion, making appearances, on occasion, as a commanding drill sergeant, an impatient authoritarian, a sign written in Cyrillic that I can’t read nor understand.
Parties, dinners, work engagements, flights: You name it. I will be late for it. I’m later still for life events—marriage, children, an on-track career with routine promotions occurring like clockwork. I’ve not been on time or linear with those either.
To be fair, it is not that I am lazy, nor irreverent. Most of the time, I am simply doing something else, distracted and curious about “things” which existed outside of what everyone else was doing. In my younger years, Time stretched like an infinity pool before me. There was so much time, in fact, it never seemed possible to run out of it. What would I do to fill up all this “Time” with as many experiences as I could?
Instead of pursuing a career, I pursued travel. I pursued launching various businesses, including a theater company, because it struck my fancy. I dabbled here and dabbled there.
Instead of getting married and bearing children in my 20s as most of my school friends had, I waited. I dated, sometimes for years on end; but, I was dabbling again, and mostly waiting for that elusive “One.” Admittedly, my patience with my stubborn adherence to waiting for this singular “One” had worn thin by the time I reached my early 30s.
In fact, on the eve of my 35th birthday, my feelings of adventure, patience, and wanderlust were replaced with a new gnawing feeling: panic. Whereas I had once felt no hurry to get married, to have a baby, to sink my anchor into the harbor of a career, I now felt that I was running out of time.
I blame Facebook for this. Reconnecting with school chums on this social network highlighted how my time might have been spent. My friends had careers, children, husbands and wives. Some owned homes. Others owned boats and vacation homes as well. I had none of these. In my 20s I pitied people for not taking more risks, having more adventures; but on this particular birthday, I felt a self-pity for lost or wasted time.
My inner clock, which had previously never so much as stirred, now ticked loudly and incessantly. Why aren’t you married yet? Why haven’t you had a baby? Why aren’t you at the top of your career in your chosen field? Oh wait … you haven’t found that yet either.
Even with this newfound awareness of Time passing, I have a feeling that maybe I’m simply a late bloomer. I can’t yet say for certain that I’ve played with my Time, used it, and occupied it yielding the best results. At 37, I may still be too young to have the benefit of hindsight.
I am getting married this year to a man who, I’m certain, was worth the wait. We’ve been together for nearly six years now. He has two adorable little girls. I have become a mother by proxy. I write a blog to inspire people, and design art and jewelry when I’m not writing articles or attempting to finish my next book. I may be a little late to the party in comparison to my colleagues and friends; but something tells me that this Party might just have an open-door, come-when-you-can, take-from-it-what-you-will policy.
If so, then maybe, just maybe, I am right on time.