Never underestimate a dad with a Motorcycle vintage shirt
I love the Never underestimate a dad with a Motorcycle vintage shirt But I will love this running of running late, but I don’t love the being of being late. I do not want to enter a meeting with a wet brow and a profuse apology as I try to revive a dormant laptop to project a 50-slide PowerPoint. The desperate hoping my nose doesn’t Pinocchio as I say the train never came or the dog ate my MetroCard. I want that embarrassing possible future dangled over me while I scoot through town, only manifesting if I don’t make up the time. Actually being late is a flex of superiority over the date you have, and it stinks. Kings and queens can be late because kings and queens can do anything they want without reproach. (See crowns, gout, and foxhunting.) Late royals are seen as eccentric—the rest of us don’t have the clout. In the granules of self-optimization is this ambition that everything runs smoothly, a due course that we meander with precision and confidence. Nearly being late is an act of resistance. A backlash to planning and premeditation. A game of chance in a world of sensible decision making. Deliberate inefficiency channeled into manageable anxiety. We all have calendar alerts and apps that mean never missing a connection, but near lateness is anti-accuracy. It’s coloring outside the lines with thick Sharpie. It’s a poetic nod to cave people, measuring time in day and night. A love letter to a time of sundials.
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