They say that at the moment of death, your whole life flashes before your eyes. And while I've never been close enough to death to verify this assessment, I do feel as if a little bit of life slipped from my grasp this weekend. Two weeks and three days ago, between the hours of 6:30 and 9:49 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, I lost 30 minutes of my life. I am still reeling from the experience.
Admittedly, the following story will sound fabricated. A first read might render the impression that I have concocted a giant farce, an alibi, of sorts, for my tardiness that night. But I beseech you, dear reader, to examine the issue more carefully. In doing so, you will undoubtedly discover that I, in fact, truly have lost 30 minutes of an otherwise meaningful and productive life.
The craziness began under the most benign of circumstances. After a five o'clock meeting that ended around 6:30 p.m., I stopped by a friend's house to eat dinner and borrow a course packet. Before dining on Subway's finest, I glanced at the clock in my friend's room and calculated that I had a little over two hours before my 9:30 appointment. (Pay attention here. As you'll see, the particulars of that clock will become increasingly significant as the robbery progresses.)
After I finished eating, I commenced reading the aforementioned course packet. I noticed that it was 7:48 p.m. and planned to ask my friend for a ride home at nine o'clock. This, I calculated, would give me enough time to get back to my house, grab the books necessary for my study date, and walk to the library before 9:30. As a result of my great propensity for lateness and a warped sense of time management in general, I made careful note of the hour so as not to transgress these crucial parameters.
I continued to read the course packet, glancing at the clock every ten minutes or so. When the clock read 8:58 I reminded my friend of the hour and we readied for departure. After good-byes to his housemates and the gathering of coats and such, we proceeded to the car. On my way out of the room, I noticed that the time was 9:18.
Since I now had only 12 minutes to spare, I asked my friend if he would wait for me at my house while I got my books and then drive me to the library. (I told you - this time management business is the bane of my existence.) He agreed, and I inquired of the hour once more just to be certain.
Now en route to my house, he checked his watch.
"9:49," he said.
"9:49!" I repeated in horror. "How could this be? When we left your house only moments go, the clock said 9:18!"
"Indeed," said my friend. "But the clock in my room is 30 minutes slow."
Nevermind the obvious question of why any sane person would knowingly keep a clock 30 minutes slow. Let's focus on the real issue at hand: somehow, between my arrival at my friend's house earlier in the evening and departure for my 9:30 appointment, I lost 30 minutes of my life.
Thirty minutes, to a person who is forever "a day late and a dollar short," is the difference between pass and fail, stop and go, life and death. An accumulated 30 minutes of tardiness is why I nearly failed a weight lifting course my first semester at the University. The significance of 30 minutes is why every clock in my room is set at least 10 minutes fast and why I won't take any classes that start before 11 a.m. no matter how interesting they sound. Thirty minutes, to me, is no laughing matter.
Make no mistake about it; those tenuous 30 minutes are going to catch up with me. Sometime in my life I'll be stuck in traffic before a crucial job interview and I'll get to the meeting place with three minutes to spare, only to discover that the only available parking spaces within miles are reserved. Reserved, of course, starting precisely 30 minutes before my arrival.
Or maybe I'll be laying on my deathbed, those proverbial life moments flashing before me like images in a tiresome "Our Family Trip to Hawaii" slide show. As I drift into The Great Beyond, I'll hear the doctor gravely declare, "If only she'd gotten here 30 minutes ago. Maybe then she'd have had a fighting chance." And as my loved ones wail and beat their chests in collective despair, I'll silently curse that backward clock and my backward friend, wishing once more for those 30 minutes wrenched from my hands.
I know I'll never get those precious minutes back. I've resigned myself to 30 minutes less love in my life, 30 minutes less happiness and 30 minutes of my grandchildren's lives that I won't get to witness. As time marches on and that damned clock keeps ticking (albeit 30 minutes too slowly), I try not to think about all that I could accomplish each day, had I only 30 more minutes.
Pray for me, friends, and the 30 minutes that I will never know.
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