On Time is Late

We've all heard some variation of the phrase, "If your early, you're on time; if you're on time, you're late." My choir director used to say, "Five minutes early is on time, on time is late." Then, there's the "Early is on time, on time is late, and late is unacceptable" variety. But no matter how you say it, the message is clear: show up early.

 

Punctuality is important to me. I hate being late, which makes me a hypocrite as I always seem to be - late, that is, not hypocritical. No matter what precautions I take to avoid being late, I find the odds of getting somewhere on time decrease as the likelihood of arriving behind schedule skyrockets.

 

Previously unwilling to accept my label as Chronically Late, I tried every tip and trick in the book. I've done the whole wake-up-fifteen-minutes-earlier-than-you-need-to thing and let me tell you, it does not work. Without fail, I find other things that need doing or take that much longer to pick out an outfit or do my hair. I've also tried setting the clock anywhere from five to ten minutes fast in an attempt to trick myself into thinking I was running late and therefore speeding up the getting-ready process. Yeah, that didn't work either because I kept seeing the real time on my phone or other communal clocks around the apartment.

 

Distractions and delays seem to find me no matter what I do. For example, I had plans with friends a few weeks ago. I was instructed to arrive at noon and told, "Don't be late!" (She knew I needed reminded.) That Saturday, my internal alarm clock woke me up early with hours to spare. I planned to leave at 11:15, which would give me about 45 minutes to get there even though it was only 20 minutes away. I got off to a slightly late start because I had to transfer my coffee into a travel mug. Okay, no biggie - I still had 40 minutes. I put my destination address into the GPS and was on my way. Upon exiting my apartment complex, I realized I had forgotten ponytail holders and had to turn around to retrieve them since they were vital to the day's activities. After that, I was a little later, but my ETA was still set well before noon. As I navigated myself onto the highway, I noticed the annoying light on my dashboard telling me I was running low on gas. Not just low, but dangerously low. Like, panic-inducing, on-the-red-line low. I knew I had to fill up, so I exited the highway to the gas station I knew was right off the exit. Except that I realized I had gotten off one exit early and there were no gas stations in sight. My GPS recalculated my route and I began to panic. How far would it take me until I saw a gas station!? WHY AM I SO GEOGRAPHICALLY CHALLENGED? I continued to drive, following my GPS's guidance that would lead me back on the right highway. I overestimated my distance to the entrance ramp and accidently got on another wrong highway. (Only I posess the ability to misnavigate while using a GPS.) I was a wreck, thinking a) I was going to run out of gas, and b) I was going to be late! I was terrified. Finally, my brain kicked into survival mode and I punched in fuel as a point of interest on the GPS. It wasn't long before I arrived at a gas station. What a relief! I put in my credit card and selected my fuel, then squeezed the handle on the pump. Nothing happened. Puzzled, I reselected my fuel and tried again.

 

Nothing.

 

I was about to throw down. I furiously cancelled the transaction and started over. Swipe credit card, check. Select credit option, check. Select fuel, check. Flip handle...oh, crap. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT'S what was holding me up? I flipped the stupid handle and began fueling. I didn't fill up all the way - ten bucks and I was outta there!

 

I finally entered my friend's neighborhood, which, inconveniently, is made up of narrow and winding streets. I crawled through them at a snail's pace, praying no one else would end up behind me and gesture angrily as a result of my slowness. I finally arrived a hot, sweaty mess, just two minutes late. I got out of the car, ready to offer excuses and apologies. But once I found out we were waiting on two others, who were also running late, I really didn't think it necessary.

 

 

Until I learn to be on time (read: be early), I guess I'll just have to accept a life of screaming, "I'm late, I'm late, I'm late!"

 

 





 

You Only Live Once

Do you remember the scene in the movie A Christmas Story when Flick is dared to stick his tongue to the icy pole? Of course you do. But in case you need a refresher, it goes like this:

Flick: Are you kidding? Stick my tongue to that stupid pole? That's dumb!
Schwartz: That's 'cause you know it'll stick!
Flick: You're full of it!
Schwartz: Oh yeah?
Flick: Yeah!
Schwartz: Well I double-DOG-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.
Schwartz: I TRIPLE-dog-dare ya!
Ralphie as Adult: [narrating] Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

The triple-dog-dare. How could anyone refuse? They couldn't. And for me, the phrase "You only live once" is the adult equivalent of the triple-dog-dare. There are times I don't necessarily want to do things because I'm too tired, too grumpy, too [insert adjective here]. But when the person requesting my company, attendence, or time says, "You only live once," well, game over. Those words are the kryptonite to my Superman. I will undoubtedly pause, reflect, and say, "You're right. Let's do it."

And most of the time, I'm happy I did.

The Happiest 5k on the Planet

I run for lots of reasons. I run because it's great exercise. I run to relieve stress. I run for charity. I run to test my limits. And most recently, I ran for color.

On June 16, the Color Run came to NE Ohio. I woke up happier than a kid on Christmas morning. I had been anticipating the run for months. They don't call it the happiest 5k for nothin'!

Color - or rather, uncolor - coordinated in white shirts as instructed, we arrived on scene with plenty of time to prep for our colorsome adventure. First, we carefully applied each other's Color Run tattoos. My running partner branded the inside of his arm while I opted for bolder placement on my cheek. Our then-white Color Run sweatbands were placed around our heads. We got our "before" photos taken by fellow color enthusiasts in the parking lot, then followed the slow and steady swarm of color(less?) runners toward the start line.

Patience was hard to come by as the start time neared. Because there were so many particpants, runners took off in waves of about 1,000. We were in the third wave. We looked behind us and saw a sea of people with two things in common:

1. They all wore white.
2. They all craved color.

As we stood waiting on one side of the road, unsuspecting travelers drove by on the other. Some waved and some honked, but they all stared. I don't blame them; I'm sure we were quite the spectacle! People of all shapes, sizes, and backgrounds, united by their willingness to give up their Saturday morning in order to get blitzed in "elf made" magical color dust.

After the third round of Miley Cyrus's Party in the U.S.A. (yes, the third), our time came. Our wave counted down and we were off and running, eager to lose ourselves in color madness. We headed downhill, rounded a corner, and saw it.

We didn't need the yellow flags that lined the street to know we had made it to our first color zone. Yellow color clouds exploded in the air, marking the territory for the color warriors that charged toward it. We sprang forward and ran through the sunshine colored gauntlet, welcoming color with more enthusiasm than a young bachelor welcoming a home cooked meal.

We continued our quest for color and approached the green color zone all too quickly. (We later established that the green zone was not adequately distanced a full kilometer away from the yellow, but that's okay.) Next came blue, which is when I quite literally began to taste the rainbow - ugh. The only rainbows I want to taste are made of Skittles in the bag and marshmallows in boxes of Lucky Charms. The color may be elf made, but I can pretty much guarantee that it's not a Keebler recipe!

  

Shortly after what they called the "pink" color zone (wich was really orange), we crossed the finish line. We participated in the Color Bombing of Richmond Heights 2012, joined what I would call the most unsuccessful conga line ever, and took "after" photos of each other and the street, which looked like a color crime scene. We made our way to the car, cleaned ourselves off to the best of our abilities with paper towels and water, and drove home to shower. I lathered, rinsed, and repeated. After getting out of the shower, I got back in because, after careful observation, I realized I looked like a victim of iodine (orange), abuse (blue), and jaundice (yellow). After scrubbing off my tan but not my color, I gave up. I'm lucky I'm not blonde, like my fellow Color Runner, who had purple spots on his head for at least the next 24 hours.

Now that it's over, all I have left are the memories and a very stained (and savored) once-white shirt. Color me bad glad, because I can't wait to go again next year!