I am acutely tied to time.

Hyper aware of the minutes that pass, I must sleep with a clock so that when I turn over in slumber I know where the progress of my rest stands. While I yearn to live within the analog, I live, I breathe, I worship my Google calendar – often punishing myself for my reliance on this digital tool to organize and synthesize my daily time. My body knows when I am running late (by even just two minutes!). I plan according to time frames, time slots, time commutes.

I believe the world is divided between two groups of people: those who, in the chaotic throws of chaos, throw away a hyper-vigilant relationship with time and those who, in plagued neurotic responsibility, accept their fate of being tied to the clock.

As someone who belongs in the latter, I often times find the former to be both romantic and selfish, both artistic and irresponsible. As someone who belongs in the latter, I often times find camaraderie in those who are punctual; seeing us as a group that is both suffering from anal neurosis and identifying as the respectful bunch in society with a twinge of moral superiority.

This is not a essay about the passing of time, or the nostalgic view of time, or the philosophical urgency on which how we use our limited time here while alive.

This is an essay about our relationship to the second, the minute, the hour, the day. Micro-increments of time and how we relate to them. Where we place our urgency; Is our anxious attachment belong to the second? To the minute? Or to the hour? How do we measure our moments…and in those moments, how do we measure the way we feel about those moments?

The other night, I was getting ready to go out for an early dinner with my girlfriends (a joy only women know!). Aware of my timing, I knew I was squeezing in much too much before I needed to shower, slather my body with lotion and perfume, and apply my makeup – not to mention choose an outfit! With only 32 minutes available at my disposal (my doing…I chose to do laundry, wash the dishes, and tidy up my living room for the first time in eight days at that exact moment), every minute felt like it needed to be filled; with body wash, with toothpaste, with moisturizer, with foundation and concealer and blush and lotion and perfume and hair gel. Every minute had to be used – and used swiftly.

I wish I could be the woman who, in a sheer black robe, dolls herself up over long periods of time in a state of relaxation and pleasure; unaware of the forces outside of herself that are depending on her punctual arrival. One who takes her time applying her blush as if her cheeks are a canvas that will be framed and hung in a museum one day. One who looks at herself with such adoration as she pampers herself. One who is blind to the outside world; foolishly unaware that others perhaps, just perhaps, might be waiting on her.

And there are times that I do that; indulge in the passing of time as a pleasurable hobby. These moments are typically enjoyed when there is no deadline of arrival that includes others.

And then there are the times where if a reservation is marked for 5:00 pm, my body promises me that I will be ready by 4:55.

That reservation – that deadline, that agreed upon meeting time, that slot on my calendar – feels like an order that if I do not show up to promptly, I have failed the others who are waiting on my company.

Time – as a rigid deadline – is my greatest strength and my anxiety’s best friend.

As Oscar Wilde once said, “Punctuality is the thief of time.”

It is the self-constructed windows and boxes we organize our days into…little 15, 30, hour increments that are blocked off and organized to the minute. Frameworks in which we view our days through. The bones that build up the skeleton which tells the stories of our days.

I am acutely aware of time – yes – of the way it holds me captive, props me up, ushers me into success, increases my heart palpitations, moves me through life.

If only I would take just a second to release myself from the minute and enjoy the decade.

Sincerely,

Gabrielle Scout

Editor-in-Chief of REVUE