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.