We've been circling/ For time, baby/ We're coming down/ To land.

It's fairly well-known that I'm terrible with time. Have been for as long as I can remember. (The only exception being flights. Though I've only actually missed one ever, I've cut it fine too many times to tell.)

It's a somewhat lesser-known fact that I can be on time if I care about the occasion enough. (Not the person, it's never about the person. Some of the people I love to pieces have spent hours waiting for me on railway platforms, bookstores, coffeeshops, restaurants, and taxi stands. In fact, the closer I get to people, the likelier I am to be late.)

So, I rarely miss new business presentations. Serious, once-a-year kind of office meetings. Airport/ station pickups. Family stuff that involves my mom. Any stuff that involves dogs, young children, or older (meaning grandparent-age type) people.

Still, I continue to be late to many things: work, most notably. This morning it led to a minor skirmish with a colleague, and it got me thinking.

Is there a certain greatness to my lateness? Short answer: No. Long answer: Well, it hasn't killed anyone yet. And I've never been late for something that actually mattered.

So, do I just believe that the people I work with don't matter? Somewhat disturbing answer: Maybe.

That's terrible, yes. It's also terribly important.

What do I do about it? Can't stay like this; it stresses people out. Can't ignore it; it's been brought to my notice. Can't talk it over; as it's a habit, and not a one-off. Can't rebel; been there, done that. Most of my life, in fact.

Can't change; that would be pretending. Can escape. And probably should.

Life is sneaky: throws epiphanies at you when you're barely awake.