Fun as it was to be young, one of the things that always sucked when I was a kid was that I had no choice about where I could go. At a moment’s notice, my mom and stepdad would announce we were going over to some relative’s house, or my stepdad would take us weekly to Home Depot when we first moved in to our house, or drag us along to the model airplane shop.
Once when I was about five, my mom decided to have my picture taken by a professional photographer on a pony. This was in the neighborhood. My memories are vague, but I remember being terrified for my life that I would fall off. And, if I’m not mistaken, the pony got away–with me on it, not knowing what the hell was going on. The picture hangs merrily on the wall of my mom’s house to this day, a portrait of terror dressed up in a cowboy outfit on a sunny suburban street.
I ascribe all of this to my current inability to abide by a regular schedule or commit to a time when hanging out with my peeps. Like they say, if you want to make the gods laugh, make a plan. If you want to ensure I won’t be there, set a date and time, and I’ll deliver.
It’s not that I try to be so flippant about the time, it’s that an entire childhood of having no choice about when and where I could go has been built into a wall that obstructs that ability to comprehend a rigid schedule. Even when my ex would want us to commit to a time to do something, and then add in, "Promise?" (which was doubly annoying), I would somehow end up flaking since I can only plan anything by playing it by ear. Or at least within a two to three hour timeframe.
I mean, it’s not the end of the world if we don’t get to hang out one day. It is the end of the world when you miss your flight. So we miss the matinee; we can always catch the next showing. But if you miss you’re train, you’re more or less SOL.
So bear with me as I play it on the fly. Ain’t no thang. We won’t die.
