Blocking Out Time

Maggie woke at six, like every morning, eyes wide open, but she couldn’t get out of bed. Her mind wouldn’t let go of a conversation she’d had the previous day. She decided to stay home, called her office and left a message she was taking a personal day, the first ever.

Yesterday she’d chastised a co-worker for not using her time efficiently. She’d leaned over the young woman to write instructions. “These are the steps you should take to finish the brochure.”

The woman had stood and backed away. “I’m a graphic designer. I don’t time myself when I create. You’ll walk to your grave looking at your watch.” The woman had left for the day.

Maggie wasn’t used to people pushing back. She was the firm’s Time Manager, a position of authority. Her biggest successes had always been about working with time.

Even as far back as grade school and high school she’d managed time. There were skating lessons and practice, dance classes, and how many hours would she need to cram for tests? She’d divided her twenty-four hour day into blocks of time: eight hours to sleep, one hour to eat three meals, one hour to and from school, six hours for classes, two hours for incidentals such as shower and brush teeth and comb hair and talk to friends, two hours for skating and dance. That left four hours to study and talk to her parents and brothers and boyfriends. Her college life had been similar.

When she’d married, she’d arranged life with her husband using the same blocks of time: meals and work and life with their friends, all arranged efficiently.

After the divorce she went out with men who used time the way she did. Not one man had lasted, as if there wasn’t time to figure out a life with at least one of them.

For the last twenty years she’d worked as many hours as she could rack up at a private bank where she’d been since her divorce. (She’d changed banks after her divorce, too embarrassed to announce her husband had left her for another woman who wasn’t all that together.)

Maggie believed she was indispensible at work, on the alert to point out timesaving steps to both executives and underlings.

But, there was always a but, how much time did she have? Imagine the hundreds of things she could do if she had more time.

Last month she’d wanted to make a hot butter cake, like she’d had in a restaurant with that guy, what’s his name. She could make one, a trial run. How difficult could the cake be? If she didn’t have the guy’s number, she would make the cake for someone new. Why not?

Next she’d try filled chocolates and cinnamon buns and strawberry shortcake. She’d do something new every day. She stared at her watch on the bedside table. Could she leave the watch there and walk out of the room?

Maggie got up, took a long bath instead of her usual shower. Forgoing her green drink for breakfast, she pulled a cheese Danish from the freezer and stuck it in the microwave, pastries always available for her niece and nephew if either popped in unexpectedly. She savored the sweetness of the Danish and picked up her coffee, smelled the dark roast before she took a sip.

She got dressed: jeans and her nephew’s sweatshirt she found in the back of her closet. How soft it was. She’d go to the park, see the cherry blossoms. Could she walk out the door without her watch? Could she stop looking at the time?