About ThisAbout Me
Email Me
Bookmark
Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
Yesterday, my wife did one of the very worst things she could possibly do. She set the clock on the car dashboard.
So now it’s accurate. The horror.
You see, I’m one of those people who’s chronically late. At work, I’m late for meetings. When I was in school, I was late for classes. Even as a fetus, I took my sweet damned time popping out into the world — and my mother will never let me forget it. That was the start of my terrible tardiness, and nothing much has changed over the years.
I’ve tried everything I could think of to break the habit, too. In high school and college, I’d set my alarm further and further back, to have more time to be on time. That just led to a worn-out ‘snooze bar’. And when I actually did manage to wake up at the first alarm, I was so early that I’d usually get distracted by the television or a cereal box or some shiny object, and I’d still be late. Though I’d also know exactly how much niacin I just consumed in my bowl of BooBerries. They’re part of a balanced breakfast, you know.
“The alarm clock is key, of course, because it’s the one that gets the day started. If it’s ten minutes fast, then I’m already ten minutes ahead of the game. Or five, if I hit the snooze bar. Three, if I have to pee really badly.”
The only trick that’s ever worked for me in not being late is to convince myself that I’m already late. Luckily, I’m not terribly bright, so I’m easily outwitted. Just by setting a few strategic clocks ahead by a few minutes, I give myself the impression — desperate dread and sweaty palms and all — of being late, when really, there’s still time on the clock. I’ve found that I can get to most places on time now, just by setting three timepieces a little ahead — my alarm clock, my watch, and — you guessed it — the clock on the car dashboard.
Each of these has their unique advantages. The alarm clock is key, of course, because it’s the one that gets the day started. If it’s ten minutes fast, then I’m already ten minutes ahead of the game. Or five, if I hit the snooze bar. Three, if I have to pee really badly. And down to zero, if they’ve redesigned the side panel of my Count Chocula box. So hedging my bets with the alarm clock is critical. Also, it’s the clock I’m most likely to believe at face value without trying to calculate how much time I really have, because I’m a drooling, jelly-headed moron first thing in the morning, and math is well beyond my capabilities at that point.
As opposed to the rest of the day, when I drool slightly less often.
The wristwatch is important because it’s always with me throughout the day. If there’s an upcoming meeting, that’s where I go to check the time. I’ve found that it’s best to only set my watch a few minutes ahead, rather than ten or twenty or more. It’s great to be five minutes ‘late’ for a meeting, according to your watch, and show up on time. It’s not so nice to sit in an empty conference room for three hours because you over-earlied the meeting. Especially if the snacks haven’t shown up yet.
That brings us to the clock in the car. This is the one I have the most leeway with, and the one with which I’ve taken the most liberties. This clock is routinely set at least fifteen minutes ahead, to give me that ‘ooh shit, I’m already late!’ feeling as early as possible. Usually this happens when I’m driving to the office, so the time buffer helps to pad that ‘dead time’ we all forget to account for, including things like walking from the garage, waiting for the elevator, and sobbing quietly in the car because another work day is starting. And since the other time management tricks are meaningless if one doesn’t actually arrive at the office on time, the car clock is the linchpin of my whole convoluted system.
Or rather, it was the linchpin. Until yesterday.
It turns out my wife doesn’t have a tardiness problem. Other than the problem she has waiting for me to get my ass in gear, at least. And it seems she got tired of arriving at appointments and dinner reservations half an hour before scheduled, because she took the clock in the car to be literally correct. So she set it to the right time.
She also — and this is a very important detail — forgot to tell me that she’d set the clock.
So I drove to work today, confident that I had plenty of time to make my big early meeting. Sure, the clock said I was late — it always says I’m ‘late’ — but I worked out the usual adjustment in my head, and decided I had plenty of time. So I didn’t take my uber-secret shortcut. I didn’t rush through yellow lights like a leadfoot lunatic being chased by the fuzz. I even let that blue-haired old lady in front of me, as a show of goodwill — and didn’t lean on the horn or call her nasty names when she, predictably, drove seven miles an hour for the next four blocks.
Why get upset about such things? The car clock said I was only fifteen minutes ‘late’, and I was only ten minutes from the office. No biggie.
You can imagine my surprise when I strolled into the conference room, thinking about snagging an extra donut before everyone arrived — and found the meeting assembled, half the business addressed, and all eyes on the jelly-headed jackass who just arrived twenty-odd minutes into the meeting. They seemed to be waiting for some sort of explanation, so as I cringed my way over to an empty seat, I said:
‘Um, sorry. My clock is working, and I didn’t know.‘
One of the higher-ups — the sort that only seem to recognize you when you’ve just screwed up — peered at me and asked:
‘You mean your clock wasn’t working, and you didn’t know?‘
‘Er… no. It’s my wife, you see. She likes to, ah, know what time it is. Actually. Not pretend time.‘
He opened his mouth to say something else, thought better of it, gave me a final angry glare, and went back to running the meeting. I sat quietly in my chair without moving an inch until the meeting was over, then dashed out to my cube before anyone could ask to ‘have a word’ in their office. If I can get through the afternoon without a tongue-lashing, it should all be forgotten by Monday.
Assuming I change the clock back. I may have to buy the wife her own car, so we can live our driving lives twenty minutes apart. That’s the only way we’ll ever show up anywhere at the same time — and apparently, the only way I’ll keep my job. Who knew you could get fired for telling time correctly?
Permalink | 4 CommentsOccasionally, I make an effort to be nice to strangers. I have this theory that it makes me a better person.
“So, once in a while, I manage to put aside my preconceived notion that everyone may be out to ‘get me’, and try to forget all I know about the vast majority of the general public — many of whom play the lottery and watch Big Brother, I might add.”
So, once in a while, I manage to put aside my preconceived notion that everyone may be out to ‘get me’, and try to forget all I know about the vast majority of the general public — many of whom play the lottery and watch Big Brother, I might add. With my mind blissfully free of such negative thoughts, I can genuinely attempt to connect with and appreciate fellow human beings with which I have no shared history. On exceptionally rare occasions, I’ll even attempt it early in the morning, when I’d normally be grumpy and snarling. I’m quite proud of myself on those days.
Today was one of those days.
On the way to work this morning, still bleary-eyed and foggy-headed, I stopped by my bank to cash a check. There were two tellers behind the counter, and two customers being served. So I moseyed up to the velvet ropes to wait my turn.
A moment later, a third person appeared behind the counter. It was a thirty-ish woman, dressed conservatively in an understated grey suit, attractive in a professional sort of way. I glanced at her, and she looked back and said:
‘Sorry, I’m not a teller.‘
Apparently, I was having a good morning, because instead of shrugging and staring at the floor, or sighing loudly, or saying, ‘Well, why aren’t, you, bitch?‘, I smiled at her and said:
‘It’s okay. You don’t have to be.‘
She smiled back, and I felt a little warm twinge. Just a little one — that summery, glowy feeling you get when you think you may have brightened someone’s day. The same twinge you might get from opening a door for a stranger, or letting a car into traffic in front of you. Maybe there’s something to this ‘being nice to people’ thing, after all.
I thought that would be the end of the exchange, but she kept smiling as she asked:
‘How are you? Your day’s going well?‘
Bonus niceties. Wow. If I kept this up, maybe they’d give me some extra money with that check I was cashing. So I replied:
‘Yes, it’s a pretty good day so far. And how’s yours?‘
‘It’s very good, thanks for asking.‘
By this time, one of the tellers had freed up, so I nodded and made my way toward the window. But I’d learned an important lesson — sometimes, if you get out of your own head and open up a little, you can make a genuine and friendly connection with someone. However brief they might be, it’s these moments that sometimes get us through a difficult day, or a sleepy morning. Above all else, this little encounter proved to me that not everyone out there is out to get you, or wants something from you, or has their own selfish agenda. If you can be nice just for the sake of being nice, your efforts will be rewarded in kind, no strings attached.
My day fully brightened, I approached the window — and was surprised to hear the not-a-teller lady continue to speak:
‘So, I’m just wondering…‘
What time it is? About nine thirty. Where I got this fresh kicky rugby shirt? American Eagle, thanks for asking. If I’d like to have coffee sometime? I’m flattered, really, but I’m a happily married man. And you don’t want to see me on caffeine. You wouldn’t like me on caffeine.
‘…would you be interested in talking to one of our 401k plan management counselors?‘
Son of a bitch. She’s not friendly. She’s selling.
‘No, thanks.‘
‘Well, how about learning about our personal CDs? The rates are very competitive.‘
I fricking hate people. I knew no good could come from being nice.
‘Sorry, I’m in kind of a hurry today.‘
‘That’s okay — just leave a number. We’ll call you, and set up a whole series of appointments.‘
Look at those cold dead eyes. How could I not have noticed those cold dead eyes? You don’t connect with these people. You avoid eye contact, and hope you can escape before they eat your brains.
‘I don’t think so. I’m just cashing a check today.‘
‘Well, in case you want to call us, here’s my card. And a brochure. And a pamphlet. Here’s a flyer. And another brochure. Don’t forget this rate sheet. And this prospectus. And a services catalog. And a sticker with our logo. And check out the posters on your way out!‘
That does it. From now on, I’m giving my checks to my wife to cash. And I’m using the ATM for all my transactions. And forget about being nice to strangers, especially in the morning. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. Fucking people, man.
Permalink | 3 CommentsIt’s that time of year again. The family car — our poor vehicle, relegated to an open-air parking spot and exposed to the harsh New England elements — is accumulating leaves at an alarming rate. I’ve seen snipers in full-on jungle camouflage wearing less foliage than our Nissan.
Of course, if I’ve seen them, then I suppose they weren’t very well camouflaged, really.
Yes, I’m aware I just undermined my own point. Look, the car’s got a lot of stupid leaves all over it, okay? Let’s just forget the poor analogies and move on.
“And if I don’t see enough awestruck stares on the way to work tomorrow, I’m escalating the issue. I’ll tape pine cones to the damn thing if I have to.”
My wife is of the opinion — the strong opinion, it seems — that we should clean said leaves from the car. She says that the leaves make the car look ‘dirty’, and ‘ghetto’, and that there could be sap in the leaves that would ruin the paint job.
(I tried to point out that sap is mostly found in the trunks of trees, which is a whole different part of the tree than the leaves, and unlikely to damage the car. She’s not buying it.
Possibly it has something to do with the analogy I used to illustrate my point, describing how certain fluids are present in some areas of the human body, but not in others. Except in certain extraordinary circumstances. Which I took the time to describe in great detail. That may have muddied the waters, just a bit.
It really hasn’t been a good week for analogies.)
Personally, I think we should leave fallen leaves where they lie. I see those little bits of tree as badges of honor. We live in Boston, after all — there are people crammed into every tiny crevasse and hole for miles around. Just being able to park our car near a little green space is saying something. So why not let the car do the saying for us?
See, my wife believes that people see those leaves and shake their head and tsk over the way it looks. But I think they look at our car and think:
‘Gee, I wish I had a tree close enough to my studio hovel to drop shit all over my car. Those lucky sons of bitches.‘
And isn’t the point of driving the car to make other people jealous? Those leaves are doing wonders in that department. Frankly, I’ve been going out to the car every morning with a tub of Elmer’s glue and sticking more leaves and twigs onto it. And if I don’t see enough awestruck stares on the way to work tomorrow, I’m escalating the issue. I’ll tape pine cones to the damn thing if I have to. Maybe shake some lawn clippings onto the hood. I’m not above supergluing a squirrel to the fender. Seriously. Just try me.
Of course, all that work is out the window this weekend. I’m certain that when I’m not looking, and the missus toddles off to ‘run errands’ on Saturday, she’ll come back in a newly-scrubbed, squeaky-clean, and leaf-free vehicle. And then we’ll start the dance again. Autumn’s just beginning, and there are a lot of leaves left to fall. I’ll have my camo-coated squirrelly-hood-ornamented car yet. You’ll see.
Permalink | 1 CommentI’m thirty-six. I’m competitive. And I’m not particularly svelte, in the traditional sense of the word.
(Or in any sense, really. I just wanted to make it sound a little less flabbety. I failed. And we move on.)
“Trust me — our games are unhelpable. It doesn’t matter which shoes we wear — we’ll still have two-inch verticals and run thirty-three second forty yard dashes.”
Given my unfortunate-but-not-so-uncommon circumstances, I find myself playing various fat old man sports, like softball and pool and golf. Though it’s often less ‘play’, and more ‘attempt to play’. Or ‘make sure my pants aren’t falling down while the ball sails past me’. When you’ve developed your body into a fully unhoned, unoiled, and creaky machine like mine, those are pretty much the same thing.
With that in mind, I’ve decided to give something back to my fellow huffing and puffing sporting compatriots. For those other aging, husky ‘athletes’ out there, I’m happy to present:
The Fat Old Man Sport ‘Rules of Engagement’
1. It’s okay to let them see you sweat. If you didn’t sweat, you’d keel over in a quivery heap in the middle of the game. So sweat it up. You weren’t going to look pretty out there anyway.
2. One of the worst things you can do is to change directions suddenly. That’s how fat old men get hurt. If you’re particularly old, you could break an ankle, or even a hip. And if you’re especially fat, that quick shift in momentum might get you slapped in the back with a roll of your own flab. That’s a big ‘ouchie’ in the pride department; personally, I think I’d prefer the shattered hip.
3. If you should find yourself on the ground — whether knocked there, fallen there, or collapsed there after a short sprint — don’t get up too quickly. When we were lithe young warriors, the goal was to leap up to prove to the opponent that we weren’t hurt. At this point, our primary concern should be preventing a coronary while we’re crawling to the bench.
4. The latest wave of fancy athletic shoes and equipment are not for us. The only reason to buy and wear the hot new Mike Vick cleats or AI cross-trainers is that they might help your game. Trust me — our games are unhelpable. It doesn’t matter which shoes we wear — we’ll still have two-inch verticals and run thirty-three second forty yard dashes. Sometimes, it doesn’t gotta be the shoes.
5. At no time should you run so hard during a game that your manboobs jiggle. Nobody wants to see that; for your aging pride’s sake, make sure it never happens. If you feel you must move quickly, then make certain to wear a shirt sufficiently loose to hide any doob movement that might occur. If you’re comfortable enough in your masculinity to pull it off, a muumuu is perfect for this purpose. It’s not stylish, but it gets the job done.
6. Your taunting days after a good play or win are over. Not so much because it’s unbecoming for an old fart who probably didn’t contribute much in the first place to get in the other team’s grill. It is unbecoming — but you’re out there in your thirty-year-old Chuck Taylors and a pink muumuu; what do you care about ‘unbecoming’? The bigger issue is that you’re ancient and fragile. One errant finger waggle, and you could be sitting out for weeks. Don’t risk it, grandpa.
7. It is acceptable to gently rib the whippersnappers on your own team with the occasional ‘When I was your age…‘ story. But if you do, you can never complain about your creaky joints or aching back in front of them again, or they’ll taunt you mercilessly into the offseason. Decide whether you’re ‘annoying pedantic old guy’ or ‘one foot in the grave complaining old guy’, and stick with it.
8. Three words: ‘shirts and skins’. Just walk away. Unless you’re one of the captains, and for your first pick you plan to choose, ‘leave my tent on and not unleash my hairy beer gut on an unsuspecting crowd‘, then walk away. Otherwise, there’s a fifty-fifty chance you’ll be out there playing, and looking from the waist up like a wrinkled-up Jabba the Hutt. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like those odds. No, thanks.
9. By all means, stretch your muscles out before playing any sort of sport. In this context, you can take ‘sport’ to mean ‘walking to the bathroom’, ‘getting out of bed’, or ‘scratching your ample ass’. These are strenuous and aerobic activities for our kind; prepare yourself accordingly. Just don’t overstretch; there’s nothing quite so exquisitely painful as being carted off the field with a tweaked hammy or groin before you’ve even taken off your warmup togs.
10. You’re still allowed to go out after the game for beers with the team. In fact, you’re encouraged — in your condition, it’s appropriate to celebrate simply getting through a game in one piece. Just be aware that those extra hours sitting your can on a bar stool will give those creaky muscles time to tighten up and give you grief. You may well need to call a cab to get home — not because you’re drunk, but because you simply won’t be able to use your legs for a couple of days. Just try explaining that to a cop giving you a field sobriety test.
Hopefully, these tips will help the other fat old guys out there play sports the way that we fat old guys should play — slowly, without injury, and with a minimum of exposed aging flesh. There’ll be plenty of time for slipped discs and bare flabby chests when we’re relegated to our rocking chairs.
Which in my case will be any day now. You might want to avert your eyes; it’s not going to be pretty. I’ll do my best to keep my muumuu on; it seems like the sporting thing to do.
Permalink | 1 Comment
![[Subscribe]](/blog/images/subscribe.png)
