Dear Time.

Dear Time,

You are moving too fast for me. I don’t really understand you. I guess I don’t really understand us. I beg you to rush by and then I blink and you have. Don’t you know I never really mean it? Haven’t you learned by now? You’ve been counting my every move for upwards of 26 million minutes. You should know me fairly well.

You do this to me every school year. You realize that, right? You are like jogging through jello in October and at next check, I am one month from summer. And you know what, Time? This year, I’m one month from ending my career. [For now.] And so I assumed you would be sensitive about that. But our constant companionship has not revealed your character to me as I would have liked. You went quicker, Time, quicker by far than I wanted.

And Time, did I mention that I have an entire week of Beth Moore Bible Study to finish before tomorrow night? I believe it was just last Tuesday that you persuaded me to watch American Idol because you said you would be everywhere in mass quantity this week. You haven’t been. You’ve been hiding under piles of mail I had to sift through. You have been mysteriously absent in parent conferences. You have been bagged up with yard sale items. You have been between pages of books and magazines, but you haven’t been where you said you would be. Everywhere. In plentiful amounts.

Can I mention, Time, that I’m almost 28. That’s weird. Not bad, just weird. How did you pull that off? Remember yesterday when I turned 16? You don’t? Oh, that wasn’t yesterday? Well, I blame you for my poor memory as well.

It’s not that you are all bad, Time. It does seem that the more of you that goes past, the better my life gets. And I do appreciate that. But Time, it’s a speed problem. I’m not even having enough of you to enjoy how good my life is.

By the way, I don’t know if you know this, Time. So let me inform you. You are prey. You are hunted every day by a predator called the internet. And it eats you. By the hour, in one big bite. Seriously, you need to start protecting yourself because when you get eaten, I suffer. It’s a sad reality.

Hey Time, one last thing. I’m tired of wasting you, the little pieces that I do get. When I use you wisely, I’m a better writer, better reader, better teacher, better friend. So Time, let’s make a deal. You go a smidge slower, give me just a bit more, and I’ll use you better. Fair?

Write back whenever you get a chance. No rush. Seriously.


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