There is a trope within the queer community that we are always running late to things. I was reminded of this last weekend during Mardi Gras (a concentrated source of events for people to be late to), when I found myself fighting off hordes for the (reserved!) table I was sitting at alone for too long. I had been, as usual in my life, the first person to arrive. The gay exception to the rule.
I am nearly always on time, the first one at the gatherings or dinners, the greeter of all my friends who straggle in at various degrees of lateness, each with their own individual relationship to time and its significance.
For some reason since I was young (anxiety?), I have always been extremely punctual. If I’m going to an event, my friends know I will be there at the advertised time to collect tickets, get prime locations, fight hand-to-hand combat for chairs, or experience first-hand a situation bad enough to change plans. I’m like the fat little canary they send down the mines, but to check for vibes. If any of my loved ones arrive at an event before me, they presume I have been kidnapped.
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Clearly, I have never been what you might call “chill” about any aspect of arriving. My need to turn up too early butts up against my desire not to be rude, so I have spent a lot of time on park benches and random cafes nearby, pretending to be normal.
I hate being late to the degree that it often makes me stressed, and it’s generally unpleasant for everyone. I have thought in the past that I should try to be a bit more relaxed about punctuality, that there is probably a bit more of a middle ground that I could head toward.
Luckily enough, an external force has actually started the process for me. That external force? Dating a very laid back woman. My girlfriend is a thoughtful person, she tries her best, and is not a very late person. She is an often a bit late person, losing track of time, or completely forgetting about the event until 15 minutes before. In a phenomenon I have witnessed many times now, but am still unable to understand, regardless of how much time we give her to get ready for a party, she will need to use every single second of that time. If she is allocated two hours or four hours or six hours, it doesn’t matter, every solitary moment will be necessary, and we will be rushing out the door while she looks for shoes or her head. For a different Mardi Gras party, last weekend, I told her she should simply start the process of getting ready as soon as we wake up. She did that and still somehow we ended up in the car, leaving at the time we’d planned to arrive. But sitting there on the way, I realised I didn’t actually feel that stressed; my body was a bit more relaxed than usual.
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It made me think about all the times recently, and in the past couple of years, my intense punctuality has been pushed back just a little bit, and I had a realisation. By always rushing, by always causing us to be a little bit later than I’d like, my girlfriend has been slowly inoculating me against my severe allergy to lateness. With each incident of being 10 minutes late, or not being the first to arrive, or getting to a movie seat while the commercials were already playing, I have been undergoing mild amounts of exposure therapy. With the situation not entirely in my control, I have been forced to undergo the horrible human experience of sometimes being a bit late to things. Of course, there are usually no negative consequences, and most people are even later than me still. My late girlfriend has shown me that it’s actually fine to not feel incredibly stressed and anxious just because you’re running a bit behind.
This doesn’t mean I’m going to become someone who isn’t usually punctual, or who doesn’t care about being late. We have been together for almost four years, and I’ve only shifted very slightly thus far. Being on time is in the fibre of my being. I will continue to get to airports with hours to spare (I once checked in so early the machine asked if I wanted to get on an earlier flight). I will continue to try to arrive at the designated time, like I’m the weird one. I will continue battling to get my girlfriend to notice the time passing. I’m not going to become a totally different person, just hopefully a bit of a calmer one.
I think it’s about time.
Rebecca Shaw is a writer based in Sydney
I have long wanted to be more relaxed about time – luckily, an external force is helping me overcome my intense punctuality
10
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07.03.2024
There is a trope within the queer community that we are always running late to things. I was reminded of this last weekend during Mardi Gras (a concentrated source of events for people to be late to), when I found myself fighting off hordes for the (reserved!) table I was sitting at alone for too long. I had been, as usual in my life, the first person to arrive. The gay exception to the rule.
I am nearly always on time, the first one at the gatherings or dinners, the greeter of all my friends who straggle in at various degrees of lateness, each with their own individual relationship to time and its significance.
For some reason since I was young (anxiety?), I have always been extremely punctual. If I’m going to an event, my friends know I will be there at the advertised time to collect tickets, get prime locations, fight hand-to-hand combat for chairs, or experience first-hand a situation bad enough to change plans. I’m like the fat little canary they send down the mines, but to check for vibes. If any of my loved ones arrive at an event before me, they presume I have been kidnapped.
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