Time is a fickle mistress. I picture her as an ageing hippy – thick
silver hair, bare feet and long patchwork skirts with dirty hems.
She messes with me a lot, speeding up and slowing down as she
pleases. She never slows when I’m eating ice-cream, though –
rather, she moves so fast that the human eye can’t see the cone fly
from the cashier to my hand, to my mouth. Bystanders only spot my
pupils dilating as a brain freeze hits.
Then, there are the situations when she throws on the brakes,
bends in the middle, flips back on herself, and taunts me by
agonisingly dragging her feet. If you’re puzzled and thinking, “She’s
making this shit up, time is consistent,” let me be clear about two
things: 1. time is not the same for all of us; and 2. you’re right, I am,
just go with it. Everyone has their own time hippy, and she will slow
the hands of your clock or warp your perception of time independent
of those around you. (If you’re not heaps mad for science, just trust
me. If you are a scientist, don’t steal my work, please.)
I’ve been noticing time slowing a lot of late – maybe she’s getting
old, or maybe she’s decided she enjoys my suffering. This morning,
for instance, I tried initiating a conversation with another cyclist as
we waited for the lift at work. “Nice day for a ride!” I chirped. “Sure,”he shrugged. I think he shrugged, anyway – it was hard to tell with all
the restrictive lycra. Either way, it wasn’t the convivial connection I’d
envisioned. A stressed-out silence settled in, and I realised the error
of my ways: we now had to wait for and ride in the lift together. Just
us, connected by a yawning sinkhole of failed conversation. Do you
know how long it can take to wait for a lift, then ride 25 storeys with
a stranger you made an unreciprocated attempt at chit-chat with?
Technically two minutes, but for me, about two hours and 17 seconds.
We stood in silence; tick tock, tick tock. Inside the lift, I thought
maybe I should try again, shovelling some words into the sinkhole.
Ideas raced through my mind. It was too late to loop back to the
topic of riding – it would look desperate, which I was. I could talk
about the building, bomb threats, fires, emergency exits, broken lift
cables, my period, Barnaby Joyce? Tick tock, tick tock. I nearly tore
my neck out of its socket (I was a top biology student) staring up at
the lift numbers. Brightly lit numbers, have you ever seen anything
so fascinating? Tick...tock...t...i....c...k. Finally, time got bored and
relented. The lift arrived at his floor and he exited without even a
nod. I swore I could hear a distant patchouli-laced cackling.
We’re all putty in time’s hands. She messes with us constantly:
those moments after you send an insensitive text or email to the
wrong person; while you wait to disembark a plane on the tarmac;
the moment you realise you’ve forgotten your best friend’s birthday
for the second year in a row. Plus, when you accidentally fart in yoga
and the sound ricochets off every hard surface in the hot, silent
room; while you walk down an interminably long corridor towards
a work colleague; and the moment the doctor’s mouth forms the
words to deliver your test results. The list goes on, and time, well,
she stretches on with it.
There’s no happy ending to this story. All we can do is surrender to
time and amateur science. So, when you next find yourself stuck in
a painful, slowly unfolding situation, just picture her, Time: a nasty,
middle-aged hippy dancing around a bonfire as she taunts and
teases you. It won’t speed things up, but it might at least evoke the
calming scent of ylang ylang oil.for old time’s sake
CARO COOPER WONDERS WHY
A FEW SECONDS CAN SOMETIMESTAKE SO LONG.
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