I am arguably the worst kind of late. I am never very late – the kind so egregious it almost demands a begrudging respect, as if the tardy party is an otherworldly spirit who cannot be expected to adhere to earthly conceptions of time.
My lateness is less bold, more tedious. I am perpetually running 10 to 15 minutes behind, so even when I am on time, I arrive frazzled and on edge. A few weeks ago, sprinting towards a train that was about to pull away from the station, it occurred to me that I didn’t have to live this way.
