“Does anyone really know what time it is? Does anyone really care?”
– Chicago (the band)
Whether you believe it or not, every one of us has their own quirks, neurosis or even occasional out and out madness. And that doesn’t just come out of nowhere. We (and the people around us) just learn to live with it.
My dad taught me that if you are a man you must wear a watch. Period. It’s a sign that you have grown up and are no longer a child. I took that as a command, not a suggestion.
Yet these days, many people say, “I can always dig out my smart phone and see the time.”
You can do that I suppose, since almost everyone has one of these insidiously wicked devices welded to their body 24/7. Not me.
I often have to find my phone. I don’t know where it is. Calling from my wife’s phone, I try to track it down by the sound of the ring, if I remembered to turn up the ring volume. Big “if” there.
My friends, when they finally catch up to me, will say, “I called you yesterday but you didn’t pick up.” Well, I rarely do. I miss the days when the world didn’t expect you to be reachable every minute of the day for any reason.
Ever hear of voicemail? Yes. I do check it every couple of weeks.
Yes, I’m an anti-technology Luddite. It took me a long time to accept even the wired landline phones that had push buttons. Don’t want to brag, but I was pretty good at operating a rotary dialed phone.
But that’s hardly the end of my mental deficiencies.
I’m sure there’s got to be a medical/psychological term for my condition which requires me to know what time it is every minute of the day, no matter what I’m doing or where I am. Every room has at least one clock.
My office has three hanging on the walls, not counting the computer displays. That way I don’t have to turn much to see that it’s 2:16 p.m. and ticking. My bathroom has one. Living room: two. Dining room: two.
Whatever I’m working on or doing, I allot X amount of time to the chore for that moment, then move on to the next. Organized procrastination.
Does this mean I’m really punctual and on time? Of course not. I’m just as late as the next person. Probably worse. But at least I know how late.
In the next few days Daylight Savings Time ends, and my cycle of misery begins. As you can imagine, this is a traumatic event for me. Twice a year.
My wife is in charge of resetting the time, but halfway through she gets bored and only finishes days later. Meanwhile, I’m left in limbo and in danger of a mental breakdown.
Even once the clocks are all reset, my troubles aren’t over. She’s not quite as picky as I am, so none of the clocks are showing the same time, sometimes as much as 5-10 minutes in one direction or the other.
I have to remember which clocks are off by how much, and do the math. And everyone knows: I HATE math.
Another reason to wear a watch.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 34 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 34 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
