Late for a should-be important date

Once upon a time…

I’m joking. My mother was incredibly excited to read my first entry last week. She called me straight after she’d finished it, and without saying hello she demanded,

“Why did you bother saying you wouldn’t say once upon a time? Isn’t it just as effective to not say it at all?”

I tried to explain to her it was a writing technique, or at least it was trying to be. In so many words, she informed me it wasn’t a very good one. So, apologies if you also felt that didn’t translate particularly well. I suppose, like much of life, it’s still trial and error at this point.

Hopefully we go a little better this week, as I detail one of the long-awaited aforementioned conversations about the little things, the sorts of conversations that provide much needed context to this confusing, beautiful, heartbreaking world we all navigate through every second of the day.

Usually on a Friday, Jen beats me to the designated restaurant by a comfortable margin, about ten minutes she usually tells me.

I’d normally take a seat, throwing my handbag on the table.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long.” She’d say causally, taking a sip of her wine. “About ten minutes.”

But last Friday, I walked into the restaurant and looked towards our usual table. When I didn’t see her, I took a moment to scan the rest of the floor – perhaps she’d wanted to switch things up and was having a drink at the bar while she waited. Not that she’s the switching up kind.

I didn’t see her there either and was abruptly greeted by a flustered waiter (strange, considering there was hardly anyone in the place), and directed to, yes, our normal table.

I was sure Jen had probably just been caught at work, but I had a fleeting feeling something might have been wrong. The feeling passed as quickly as it came as I saw her entering the room.

She clocked me straight away. I could tell by the look on her face that she was slightly disappointed that her so far stellar record had been suddenly broken. She slowed her slightly rushed pace to a casual stroll, making out she hadn’t been hurrying.

“You’re early.” She said, somewhat facetiously though I could see this is one of those things that she will stew on for a moment longer than necessary.

“I was right on time.” I say, teasingly.

We exchange the usual foreplay chat, how was your day, what did you do, do you want a glass or a bottle?

We’re both halfway through our first glass of bubbly when Eperly finally comes crashing in.

“Sorry I’m late,” She says.

Jen pours her a glass.

“We expect it by now.” She says, somewhat drily.

“I’m not always late.” Eperly says indignantly.

“Yes, you are.” Jen replies.

“I’m worth the wait.” Eperly concedes.

“Lucky.” I say.

Eperly, about to take a sip, pauses, looking first at me, then at Jen, reading our faces.

“You’re not actually pissed are you? I just always have one more email to send, or get stuck behind slow walkers, or Simon wants to talk to me when I’m trying to leave, or-”

“We’re not mad,” I interject, knowing how long she can babble for. “I mean, at least I’m not. I feel like every group has the one friend who’s always late, right?”

“Right.” Eperly says, somewhat relieved, her glass resuming its journey back towards her lips.  

“Although,” Jen says, ever looking for a teachable moment. “I guess it depends.”

“What depends? Depends on what?” Eperly narrows her eyes.

“Just because someone is always late, does that excuse them from being always late?”

“So…you are mad.” Eperly says.

“No, not at all. Because we’re at dinner, and it’s early, and I wasn’t alone, and we can have a drink while we wait. But if I was meeting you at, say, the gym for an hour and you were 20 minutes late, suddenly my workout is cut short or I’m late to work.”

“I feel like it depends on the intention.” I weigh in. “If you’re late because you really get caught up somewhere, or something happens that’s out of your control, that’s fine. But, if it’s because your main priority isn’t making your plans on time because you know people will wait for you, maybe that says something else.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Simon not to talk to me on a Friday evening, or else my friends are going to psychoanalyze me.” Eperly laughs.

There’s something about her laugh, how every time she laughs, it’s a real laugh. She could have seen the funniest thing she’d ever seen, and her laugh would still be the same as if she was laughing out of politeness. It’s always the same, always loud, always child-like, always infectious. I can never help but laugh along with her.  

“You know what they say. You’ve got the same amount of hours in the day as Beyoncé. Don’t spend them waiting for someone who doesn’t value your time.”

“That’s not what they say.” Eperly says, scrunching her nose and taking another sip of her wine.

But maybe it should be. Maybe this is your sign to talk to that one friend who gets away with wasting your time, just because they always do. Because every questionable character trait will be excused until it’s not to be anymore. Maybe it’s these small conversations we can have to make sure the people closest to you, your friends, your colleagues, your family, don’t have to put themselves on hold, even if it’s only for 15 minutes.

Because over four weeks, 15 minutes is an hour. Over a year, that’s 12 hours. Over 10 years, that’s 120 hours.

And I bet Beyoncé could write a few songs in 120 hours.