Wasting Time

I wake at five o’clock in the morning, put on the pressed suit and shirt I laid out the night before, and pick up my luggage for my trip. As I leave, I kiss my sleeping wife’s arm and grab the July copy of The Sun from the nightstand to read on the plane.

In first class I sit next to a carefully manicured man who’s reading How to Win Friends and Influence People. I open The Sun to Readers Write on “Wasting Time.” I chuckle as I read about a writer who procrastinates by playing computer games and studying the inspirational sayings pinned up around her computer. Then there’s a piece about two gay men in prison trapped in their daydreams, and one about a Peace Corps volunteer chopping wood to stay warm in her tiny hut, and another about an abusive mother reuniting with her daughter. I’m crying now — quietly, so no one will hear.

I will waste a lot of time today. When my airplane lands, I’ll face twelve hours of meetings in which I’ll talk about financial services and market fluctuations. I’ll take ten pages of notes that I will likely never look at again. I’ll buy my clients a very expensive lunch and listen to them talk about their major home renovations, private schools, and exotic vacations. I’ll ask the right questions and laugh at their stories. Afterward I’ll go back to my hotel and flip through bad movies on cable.

My wife is probably getting up and starting coffee right now. Our children will rise around seven to play Legos and maybe perform a puppet show before breakfast. Our daughter has her first experimental dance class today. In the afternoon they’ll go to the pool, soak in the sun, and eat cheeseburgers and popsicles. They’ll watch Spy Kids and read Harry Potter. They’ll have a thousand questions: “Mom, what’s a kiwi?” “How fast does this car go?” “Why is Alex so mean?” “When is Daddy coming home?” “Can I have a new doll?” “Who is Jesus?” They will not waste one minute today.

Maybe I’ll skip the meetings and take the next flight home. I’ll tell my clients I’m sick. I’ll drive up to the house and see my children playing in the sprinklers, my wife sitting on the picnic bench sipping coffee. The kids will scream and charge at me, soaking my pressed suit with their wet little bodies and giggling. Then we’ll load a picnic basket and pile into my wife’s VW bug and drive to the river.

The daydream lasts the entire flight. At my destination, I quietly climb into the taxi that will take me downtown for my first meeting.