Raised on the formulas of Time is Money, There’s No Time Like The Present, and A Stitch in Time Saves Nine, the measurement of time strikes me as both crucial and futile. O, Second Hand, why do you taunt me so? The “one Mississippi, two Mississippi” of your existence carries such weight – so much power for such a slender little thing.
Like many people, I’ve been chasing the clock all my life. I learned it from my parents, who learned it from their parents, who learned from theirs, who seem to have brought it with them from Europe.
I would like to blame the Europeans, but so few of the ones that I’ve met seem to suffer from an inflammation of Time – or perhaps they’re better at keeping their swelling under control when they’re not at work.
It wasn’t always like this. Does it have something to do with being an adult?
I personally seem to have two speeds: inertia and full-frontal multi-taskification.
Why is there always so much to do? Wasn’t the cell phone, the laptop supposed to ease our workloads?
I imagine when the wheel was invented, people everywhere rejoiced. Finally! No more pushing things! No more dragging stuff!
Why, with the wheel moving things so efficiently, I’ll have time to play cards with my friends!
No, you won’t. It’ll just give you more time to scrape hides, ward off predators, and make those groovy tooth necklaces.
And now that you have more time on your hands, why not get a job, too? I hear Zuk and Urg down at Zuk and Urg’s Wacky Inflatable Mastodons are looking for a receptionist.
Welcome, my friends, to a three-day weekend, the first paid three-day weekend since, what, New Year's Eve?
What will I do with this time? Will I plant more flowers? Will I write that wedding reading I promised for next weekend?
Will I make one of those groovy tooth necklaces?
Just what does relaxation look like?
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