I am that girl, the habitually late one. I would love to be able to say it isn’t my fault, but I know better than that. It is no ones fault but my own. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much more time I give myself to get ready, I somehow find a way to end up being late.
Trust me when I say, I get how incredibly annoying it is to have a friend that is continuously showing up late to your functions. Not only do I understand it, I can see it in your seething-blood-red-eyes.
Especially that time I tried to sneak past the Bride on her way down the aisle.
Obviously there are times when being late is completely unacceptable.
According to my ex-husband, showing up late for our wedding was a no, no. I think he should have been happy I got there, I mean come on our wedding took place in Vegas. Who isn’t late for a wedding in Vegas?
Being “The Late Girl,” isn’t something I’m proud of. It isn’t a part of a sinister plan to be the center of attention. I get embarrassed and feel terrible each time – I am not on time.
I know you think I don’t care about your feelings when I am late, but I do and I am sorry. I meant to feed the dog, water the plants and have my jeans dry before leaving to attend your event. I got distracted, again.
I am not late to make your life hell; that is a promise. I am Type-B, I don’t live like you. My Books aren’t in Alphabetical order, and I am no good at using a calendar. I have tried, I even bought the Moms-Greatest-Calendar-Calendar. I used it for the first month of school and now I still have all the stickers. Honestly people, who has that many dentist appointments?
If you think about it, it’s actually a good thing. I am clearly not organized enough to plan
your murder a murder.
I’m not good at planning my time at all, and I know it bothers you. Hell, it would bother me if I had to deal with “The consistently late girl.” But my brain doesn’t work like yours; I am not a list maker. There are no things-to-get-done-lists on my fridge. My fridge has a chalkboard on it with half erased volleyball pick up times and a partly cleared WiFi password. From. Last. Year.
I know you want to tell me to write things down. I DO. On pieces of paper all over my house. Sometimes my dog eats them and sometimes I just throw them away, because what-the-fuck-is-this happens. I do not have your meticulous list building skills and for that I apologize, sincerely.
Remember that time you text me and we made plans? I don’t; I read it, and off it went into the vortex I like to call my mind. To be fair it isn’t that I wasn’t excited, I just keep this brain full of other useless shit. So when I showed up late, it may have been I completely forgot we had plans. I am sorry, I really do love you. I meant no harm.
If you think you have it bad, imagine my poor children. I showed up late to my daughter’s grade seven grad. Even after my teenage son kept trying to push me out the door. (For those that don’t know, I live across the street from my daughter’s school. I was still late.) There I am, standing room only at the back of the gym feeling like an ass. One. More. Time.
So to all of you that I have made feel unimportant because of my constant tardiness. I want you to know, I am sorry. I mean no harm when it comes to my lateness. I have spent a good forty-two years trying to change the inevitable.
Thanks for the invite, but I will be late.