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I’m always on time.

Scratch that.  I’m always early.

I was taught early on in my life not to waste anyone’s time.  My mom and dad believed that being fifteen minutes late or arriving fifteen minutes early is basically the same.  Both are equally disruptive and unnecessary.

I therefore calculate everything in my power before I leave my home; speed, velocity, fronts, wind patterns, mood, angel dust, and God speed.  I will always arrive at our designated meeting sport, about twenty minutes to spare.  I will then sit alone in my car thinking, or counting down the remaining minutes, before I knock on your door, at the precise agreed upon hour.  I can’t help it.  It is how I am wired.

Never being late is very admirable, but it is not without cost.

Over time I have developed some anxiety when it comes to time.  A sudden change in routine does funny things to my psyche, and at worst of times, I am always tempted to quit.

I wake up at 4:02 am; Monday to Friday.  On the weekend, I let the rhythm of my family take its course.  4:02 is arbitrary, but I never miss it.

Most of the time, my body is so in tune with my environment that I wake up a few minutes before its time, allowing me the chance to turn off the alarm, before anyone else is affected.

This morning, after staying up later than usual, the alarm ripped me from my sleep at the predetermined time.  My morning routine was unchanged, except that I forgot to calculate the time needed to pack my car for a photoshoot I will be doing later on this evening.

I lost ten minutes, and when I saw the clock staring back at me in the car, I panicked.

An anxious little thought inside my head offered the comforting solution that perhaps I should not go to the gym today.  I beat that down quick, and drove away.  When I got to the gym, the thought came at me again and reasoned that I should cut the exercise down by ten minutes, restoring balance in the universe.  Again, I didn’t listen.

My anxiety rose again a third time and that little stubborn voice asked my permission to skip the sit ups, after all, my abs have been dormant for so long, what’s the point, but I could really make up some time. 

I grabbed the bosu-ball, some weights, and bobbed my body up and down, until I couldn’t.

When it was all said, and done, I got back in my car and noticed that I have gained ten minutes.  The universe had restored itself all on its own, probably because I don’t have a very good sense of time to begin with.

If I didn’t fight my natural instincts and persevered, I would be writing a different post today. Or worse, I might have quit writing any post. After all, who the hell reads it anyway?

We cannot stop our fear and anxiety.  We can only choose to go to war against it.  Sometimes we are victorious.  Sometimes we get wounded.

Keep fighting.

Your life is worth fighting for.

 

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