Promptly after placing my order with the waiter during a recent lunch date with my sister, I took notice on how robotic we are to document the process of life. A glimpse at the digital clock on my cell phone indicates that 5 minutes have passed since he was sent forth to make sure that the cook knew that, indeed, I did want extra onions. A couple of minutes go by and now he has passed my table for a second time. The mediocre sitcom on the television is about 5 years outdated, and my sisters irrelevant dialogue relating to purses is of no interest. Scroll down the touch screen, and my favorite apps shows no interesting updates, which is logical considering I checked them only before we sat down. The clock marks another two minutes of my life left in oblivion. And is when the idea sinks it.
Clocks are like crucifixs in a catholic household, they are everywhere. Chronologized are the seconds and microseconds of each minute, interdependent to the hands and tick-tocks of the clock, always organizing our days and analyzing them by time patterns. Always filtering hours by half hours, quarter ’tils, five afters’ and so-so minutes late. If you haven’t left for work by the time Al Roker says his infamous “here’s whats happening in your neck of the woods” phrase, you’re prone to be given that repulsive look from your boss. A wrong turn, and you’ve already given a bad impression to your future mother-in-law, who by now surely thinks that by your unpunctual nature, you’ll surely be making the congregation wait for you to get to the mass ceremony. Drive-thru’s are designed and cataloged to stay true to the speed of life, in the fast lane. God forbid your extra-foam, 5 sugar decaf latte take more than 3 minutes. That kind of artisanal craft isn’t supposed to last more than a song playing on the radio. And so we are brainwashed and, essentially, summoned to take on life just in this matter; to always expect it to be instant as if all we need to do is add hot water. We pace ourselves to the second hand, but what about the ticking inside? The internal clock?
I decided not to put a time limit to quality sibling time. Not to rush through the obligatory catching up chat and, yes, even her irrelevant purse dialogue. Not to storm through coffee to get the cocktails later on. We tend to crystallize the future before it even begins, foreshadowing the week before we even get to church on Sunday, or mimosa brunch if your one of my kind. Consequently, we devour our life in an unhealthy etiquette. We don’t stop and chew, savoring each moment appropriately. When the plate is placed before us, we should analyze it and selectively pick whatever interests us first and slowly go through the process of indulging through the rest of the meal. Instead, we treat each day as if it is a $5 all-you-can-eat. Gluttony at its best. We figure since there is permission to seconds, the first doesn’t matter all that much. Washed down with accelerated force, dashing over to the next isle.
Naturally-and evidently-it would be merely impossible to deprogram the clock of life. We are all expected at indicated places at indicated times and the wake-up call is essential and uncompromising. But perhaps particular moments don’t have to fall to the same scheme. It may be an elusive concept, but disregarding the existence of, well, anything else than the current corresponding factors can factor you in to currently correspond. Having stagnant moments wouldn’t hurt us, if only for a few minutes; a few moments; a few everlasting and cherished memories.