I think I view punctuality differently than most people. To others, being a few minutes late seems like no big deal, and in most cases, they’re right. But to me, being late has always seemed inconsiderate, like I’m wasting a person’s time if I’m not there exactly when I should be.
I’ve tried recently to adjust my thinking on this, because the group of people I generally spend time with runs constantly ten to twenty minutes late. For everything. Lunch, dinner, movies, meeting for coffee, you name it. But despite the fact that I’m absolutely positive that a noon meeting time means 12:15 to 12:20 to my friends, I can’t bring myself to adjust my own habits. I’ve at least gotten to a point where others’ lateness no longer offends me. (Believe me, it took awhile.)
I even tried to make myself be late once. I repeated over and over to myself that we were meeting at 1:45, even though the real meeting time was 1:30. Alas, my subconscious won out, and I was there at 1:30 sharp.
The only thing I have managed to accomplish in this area is little white lies. If something is really important and I’m the planner of the event, I sometimes tell friends to meet ten to fifteen minutes earlier than I really need them there. And so far, none of them has been the wiser. Small victories.
Still, the guilt gets to me with time-fibbing unless the event is rather important, so for the everyday, I bring a book with me everywhere to pass the time as I wait for my chronically late friends, as I remain the only chronically and woefully punctual person I know.
