Why is it that I can’t ever get somewhere right on time? Is there some sort of cosmic underpinning to my activities that lends to either an early or late arrival and never to just being on time?
I noticed that again this morning when The Mister and I took Rocky to the vet. Early. Which means extra sitting there with a dog who is being told by other dogs in their dog language, that this place is not so cool. Not fun.
On the other hand, I’m always late to work. Granted I don’t have an official start time, but if I did, I’d be way past it.
I’m always late refilling my prescriptions. I often go without for at least a week before breaking down and calling it in. You’d think by now I’d sign up for one of those automatic refill programs. But where’s the fun in that?
I was late being born. But early learning to read.
I was a late bloomer.
I am not an early bird.
Am I’m doomed to live a life where time is not of the essence? Or am I just making things interesting? Part of the problem is I have the worst knack at either overestimating or underestimating the time it takes to get places. I’m either rushing or driving around the block to waste time. Never have I just rolled in at the perfect time for something. Not once.
Maybe I’ll be late dying…