Matt and I have a tendency to be a few minutes late to most events. Matt has no problem being late, I however, do. Being late causes me to feel a little sick to my stomach. I hate it. And I know why.
Back in my high school days I had a chronic tardiness problem. And I do mean CHRONIC. I just had a really hard time getting up in the mornings, and the fact that I walked to school didn't help. The detention aides knew me by name, one even went ahead and brought crossword puzzles to detention with him because he knew that I liked them, and that I would, without a shadow of a doubt, be in Saturday morning detention. By the end of my junior year I had racked up so many tardies that the Dean called my Mom to tell her that unless I served my time throughout the summer, I would not be allowed to graduate. Needless to say, I spent several days that summer at the high school helping the guidance counselor reorganize her files.
As the years have progressed I have begun to feel as though I had "chronically tardy" stamped on my chest like the scarlet letter. I forever feel the need to make up for my wanton ways in high school by being a few minutes early to everything. My husband does not agree. In general, he doesn't mind being late, and thinks that everything is merely five or tens minutes away.
Don't worry, he says. We can make it, he says. All the while I am digging my fingernails into my palms as memories of after school detention come rushing back to me.
Last Saturday was one such event. We had been invited to a wedding that was scheduled for noon. The previous day we realized that neither of us had remember to pick up a card, so we planned to stop and get one before the wedding. C'mon Matt, I whined, we are gonna be sooo late!
Here are a few pictures I snapped on the way.
This was our only option as to where to stop that was on the way...
...because it was already this time...
By this point my voice had reached a fervored pitch that set all the neighborhood dogs to barking.
Can't you just see the stress in his jaw?
We ran into the church just as the best man began walking the bride's mother down the aisle. As you might imagine, by this point I was near to tears. We waited for the ceremony to end, then shamefully made our way over to my dad.
"That's my Bekah, always late." he joked. I fear I will never lose this stigma. But on the plus side, we made it in time for the send-off!
Are you always late? Always on time? 15 minutes early?