Friday, June 23, 2000

6:08 p.m. Heading out for an evening of frivolity and festivity and of course I'm ready hours before Igor. Igor dawdles. He is the king of dawdling. He is incapable of passing a shiny object without stopping to examine it, put it back upside down, spill a few crumbs around it.

He's dawdling now, even as I type. We're due there at 7 p.m. and do you know how we're going to make up for the time lost right now? The time for powdering and fluffing and combing (!) and tucking and admiring? If you're married or in a long-term Itchy and Scratchy relationship, you already know the answer.

Why, we're going to speed on the highway, of course. Fuss behind the slow moving vehicle ahead of us. Fume all the way ...

Whereas, right now -- right this very minute, he could speed through the house, pulling on socks and air-drying on the fly, grabbing a shirt and running and buttoning ... with no one to bump into or honk at or get in his way.

But noooooooo. Colors must be chosen -- slooooooowly. A button buttoned, and then musing must take place. Staring into space must take place. A phone call must be made. Maybe a snack. Then, perhaps, the socks.

I could write a whole, demanding entry in the time between the shower turning off and the belt drawer whamming back into its sockets. Sigh.

And there's no use in hurrying him along. I've tried; I've tried. The man from the Super Shuttle and I have become close and dear friends as I stalled him and appeased the folks in the dual back seats as Igor poured just one more sip of coffee, carefully selected one more magazine to read on the plane.

And there's no use in even getting up from the machine until he's literally out the door, because he's inevitably going to come right back in, change his hat, grab a different jacket, remember extra directions -- or hit the bathroom just to be safe.

Which is where, from the sound of the seat crashing down, he is right now. And soon, he will be here in the room, saying: "All set to go?"

Which he just did, which is my cue. We're off.

Nope. I spoke too soon. It's the jacket thing. The front-door check for last-minute FedEx. Maybe now.

12:07. We were late, of course. We called the restaurant and told them to announce this fact to our patiently waiting dinner companions, but of course they didn't. And traffic was thicker than usual and we got lost, both on the drive and on foot once we left the vehicle.

It's all turned out ok, but really -- if I were in charge, I'd leave extra early to compensate for traffic, obey the speed limit religiously, and have a nice book to read while I wait for the Igors of the world to come careening into the parking lot. That's what I'd do.

I am not in charge and I don't rule the world. Not yet. Plus, the other day I sat in gum, so there's still plenty to worry about at my end.