Waiting for the Missus

I’m waiting for the Missus, so I thought I might as well do something productive like, oh, I don’t know, read War and Peace, or possibly rebuild Rome.

There is NO REASON TO PANIC even though, by my clock, which works, as opposed to the one in the kitchen that is always 20 minutes late, we have approximately 67 minutes to buy a bottle of wine, get across town during Friday afternoon rush hour, and then listen to the Missus’ sisters complain when we arrived late for the 900,000th time.

You would think that after 30 years of waiting for the Missus, I would get better at it. That I would accept that some things in life are inevitable, like death and taxes and being late.

But you would be wrong.

When you have been on deadline your whole life, when you believe in keeping your damn word, when you are a MAN, for crying out loud, you simply CANNOT accept the concept of being late.

It is not logical. There are strategies for avoiding being late, chiefly, that of being on friggin time.

It’s not like this evening was a surprise.

First off, my brother-in-law’s birthday is on the same day every year.

He has a BBQ every year.

He invites the same people every year.

All of whom are on time every year, except for the people in my car.

They are the people who arrive late.

People who have not spoken in the car for the entire trip (yelling is not counted).

So I will arrive at the BBQ with frayed nerves because, trying not to be late, I will have driven exactly like Bruce Willis.

Except that he steals taxis and 18-wheelers and helicopters, which helps him make up time for his wife, who you just know is always late.

And he gets to shoot at people with a machine gun.

I, on the other hand, drive a Honda and do not get to shoot at anyone, which slows things way down.

UPDATE

News from the kitchen: We now have an hour to buy wine and get across town in Friday afternoon rush hour, and the Missus is about to wrap the present.

Far be it from me to mention that the present could have been wrapped yesterday.

(Do not suggest I could have wrapped the present. Have you seen the way I wrap presents???)

Not that I am fixated on time or counting the minutes.

But if I were, I would know that we now have 50 minutes to buy wine and get across town in Friday afternoon rush hour traffic.

Lawsy.

If I had time in a bottle representing all the minutes that we have been late in the last 30 years, I am almost certain that amount of minutes would tally exactly 30 years.

Don’t argue with Bruce and me about the math. Just don’t.

Especially if you are one of those women or the female persuasion who is always late…

 

 

 




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