Coonridge Digest: Time is …well, relative

Greetings from the Ridge.
You probably know her. In fact, she’s likely to be a close family member and she’ll be getting as much attention as Santa Claus in the next two weeks. Of course she’s just as likely to be a “he,” but to avoid doubling pronouns let’s call her Linda.
Linda is the person you waited on last night as your family was hurrying to get to your destination. Linda is the one you’re always waiting on. No matter when you have to leave, Linda isn’t ready. You can try to fool her by setting up the clocks or lying about the party’s starting time, but nothing will work. Linda was born with an innate sense of when things are supposed to start and an equally inherent determination that she won’t be ready.
In the past few years you’ve even harbored the notion that perhaps Linda purposely sabotages your plans. She knows when you want to be there, she knows that you hate being late, and she unconsciously does everything in her power to keep you from being on time. Dealing with her is like trying to get a rock to swim. You can give it lessons and even push it into the water, but it’s still going to sink to the bottom… late.
Her methods? She (or he) has an entire catalog of weaponry. She changes her mind about what to wear, she has to check the contents of her luggage one more time, she loses something that can’t be found, she makes mysterious pilgrimages to the restroom – the purposes of which you dare not ask, she stands for long periods of time simply staring at objects for which you see no need of explanation.
Do what you will, she will outwit you. She has beaten you. She’s driven you into a corner from which you cannot escape. This leaves you with two choices – keep fighting the battle and accept a life of ulcers, abnormal sweating, and the pointed stares of anxious hostesses, or… take everything you know to be true and right and proper and toss it into the river of inevitability. You give up.
You’ve got to understand that you’ve pegged Linda wrong. You think she stays up nights plotting ways to make you miss the first quarter of every ballgame, the first half of each movie, and you find yourself asking other audience members what happened in Act I. Think again. 
This is not a purposeful behavior on her part, it’s genetic, man. She really knoweth not what she do-eth. Or if she do-eth, she doesn’t know-eth she do-eth.
True, she may be subconsciously fighting back against an angst-ridden childhood of an overly-punctual father or a meticulous mother, but chances are she just orbits around a different planet than you have in your solar system.
Perhaps her mother was frightened by an alarm clock in her eighth month of pregnancy. Maybe she had the chicken pox in kindergarten the week they learned to tell time. And maybe, just maybe, she’s found that time is – well – relative.
So before you write poor Linda off as incurable, insufferable, and put on earth for the sole purpose of driving you bananas, consider this: 
Linda is happy. You are not. Linda sleeps well at night while you toss and turn about getting her to the airport before the flight takes off. 
You spend goodly amounts of your waking hours staring at the clock that she blissfully ignores.  You see Mickey Mouse’s hands signaling your late arrival. Linda thinks Mickey waving to her.
As you sit fuming with your car engine running, waiting for Linda to “just pick up a few last minute things,” already late for the dinner party and knowing that there’s yet another stop to make before you’re free to speed away to the event, Linda comes out of the store. She’s smiling. While she was shopping she ran into the most interesting book, saw the most gorgeous outfit imaginable and had to try it on, and couldn’t help but chat with an old friend. Again, it’s important to remember that Linda is smiling and you are not. When you finally arrive at the evening’s destination you’ll need only roll your eyes at the guests now hunkering down into their dessert and they’ll understand why you were late. Linda won’t mind. Linda likes dessert.
You’ve spent your entire day worrying about whether Linda will be ready. Linda hasn’t given a single thought to a task until the task was upon her. You fretted your day away. Linda enjoyed hers.
So, before you let Linda and her ilk drive you up the holiday tree of frustration, let’s remember that it’s the season of joy. Linda’s still got hers. You don’t.
You ever in Coonridge, stop by. We may not answer the door, but you’ll enjoy the trip.