So I was perusing my local newspaper and noted that the forecast called for snow. (This was of course far in the past, as this publication requires that we submit our columns several months before printing). I began to think, "Maybe I ought to write about how snow isn't the same now that school never gets canceled here," but that didn't work, for two reasons: 1. School ended up being canceled, and 2. I realized that you're supposed to think in italics, and "speak" with quotation marks. Then my eyes turned to the date -- January somethingth, 2008. These are measures of time, my mind exclaimed to itself! And thus, I will write about time.
Time. What a nasty, two-faced, lazy, cold, malicious bastard -- the illegitimate triple-love-child of mortality, civilization and physics. And yet we've still got to keep obeying his/her every whim, always by the numbers. When you were younger, did you ever look at certain years in the future and think that they'd never come because that was just so far in the future, but then they came and it sort of seemed surreal but you just had to roll with it because the march of time is inexorable? No? Was that just me?
Well.
Consider the year you would graduate high school or college. You're identified by that number for such a long time, both before and after it comes. But during? That year arrives and you feel like something special's supposed to happen, like it's supposed to feel different. Kind of like your birthday: You wait for it eagerly, but it doesn't feel any different than any other Tuesday or Thursday or whatever. You don't wake up that morning, afternoon (or evening?) feeling older and more mature because, as I have recently discovered, a "year" has nothing to do with human growth or aging, but is actually just a measurement for the length of time it takes for the "Earth" to "orbit" the "Sun!" I don't know what any of those things are, but I can tell you that they sound silly indeed.
Back to the subject of "special times," whether they be birthdays, weddings, crazy parties, graduations, big purchases, the first day of school, the last day of school, Christmas, Easter, Hanukkah, Halloween, Thanksgiving, New Year's, Labor Day or all of the above in one mind-blowing weekend that they're sure to make a movie about, once you get around to writing that screenplay. What do these all have in common? They're things people wait for.
I swear there was a time when I could take a peek at all my buddies' profiles on AIM, and nine out of 10 (because most times, I've only had 10 friends) of them would include some sort of countdown to something, updated regularly. There is always something we can't wait for. In theory, that's good. If I remember correctly, the one good thing in Pandora's Box was "hope," and that's essentially what we're clinging to. On the other hand, it means we're always waiting for something.
Consider it: You wait through the first part of your day until sweet, sweet lunchtime. Once that comes, you're waiting in line at your favorite food-dispensing location. Watching TV, how often are you just waiting for the commercial to be over? Or how about waiting through five days of school or work for the weekend, ostensibly to either kick back and relax or to hit up that party you've been looking forward to. After you've been at that party for a bit, how long is it until you're tired or drunk or about to make a big score and can't wait to go home (yours or someone else's)?
We are always waiting for something, but I keep hearing these people say I should cherish every moment, enjoy every meal like it's my last, each day is blessed, et cetera, et cetera. That sounds impossible and boring. I'd rather just not give in to that dirty rat Time and travel back and forth within it as I please. Which leads me to my next point, this invention I'm almost done with. Unfortunately, it appears as if I have run out of space and will have to save this for next time. I can't wait.
Oh, were you expecting some sort of poignant conclusion to tie all that together? Shame on you. I'm a second-semester fourth-year with no explicit future ahead of me, and I am under no obligation to write sensible things.
Erik's column runs biweekly Thursdays. He can be reached at silk@cavalierdaily.com.
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