A night for clock-watchers (National Post, December 29, 2004)

Where Time's wing'd flight is concerned, New Year's Eve is one of the few occasions when I am completely in sync with my fellows. Nobody wants to miss the countdown at 11:59 p.m., so for one brief shining moment a year, I'm one of the flock, not the anxiously vigilant shepherd.

Punctuality is said to be the politeness of kings. Perhaps I was a monarch (or merely Swiss) in a previous life. Make an appointment with me, and even if I know you are never ever on schedule, even if you are a doctor, I will be there on time -- or early. It isn't only out of courtesy, although certainly I consider punctuality to be a baseline mark of consideration for others. Rather, it's because my awareness of time passing is hard-wired in my gut; the slimmest possibility of being late provokes visceral anxiety bordering on panic. I find it easier to comply with irrational compulsion than to insist on logic with a racing heart.

It began with a punctuality-obsessed mother, who turned my sisters and me into co-dependents. Common ventures excited us to competitive flourishes of near-Pharisaic zealotry. Once we were all to meet at a restaurant at 1 pm. My mother, one sister and I showily converged there at 12:55. The other sister arrived at 1 p.m. sharp to raised eyebrows and pursed lips. "Sorry I'm late," she sighed. We graciously forgave her.

This familial tic was a sore point with my future husband. An only child, his parents had always indulged his penchant for tardiness. When she deduced our relationship was serious, my mother invited him to a formal Sabbath dinner. He arrived 10 minutes late. We were already well into the soup course. He was shocked and offended, but we were, like, "What?"

This incident presaged further incompatibilities. I grumbled over trivia like movie arrival time (he's happy to come in on the lion's roar, I allow for lineups and optimal seating choice). I was dictatorial about more important issues. Any and all promised pick-up times -- especially for our kids -- had to be scrupulously observed. He used to take an Indiana Jones-like pleasure in puffing up to the airport gate at the last minute; I factor in putative oil tanker explosions on the highway and blizzards in July. It ended in an incident involving separate taxis. He caved.

I have learned that punctuality is not universally venerated. "Reliability" to the time-conscious may be "uptightness" to the time-casual. Where "puncs" see self-absorption, "unpuncs" see flexibility and an admirably laid-back approach to life. I was a matchmaker between a dear friend and an old flame, ideal husband material apart from his chronic inability to manage personal and social time. He was always late, in my eyes a mortal insult, in his an innocent foible. Fortunately, my friend has punctuality issues herself, so they are mutually non-judgmental. Funny thing, though: He's a litigation lawyer, and never late for court. When it is "important," even the most dilatory can be punctual, which raises the obvious question: Aren't family and friends important to unpuncs?

Sometimes I wish I could go with the flow more where time is concerned, but, as Popeye used to say, I yam what I yam. On the whole, though, I think we puncs are on the side of the angels. If there is a heaven, I daresay new arrivals aren't kept waiting at the gates. Pleasure -- or tension -- in meeting someone doesn't bloom in the moment of the physical encounter; it is nurtured in one's anticipation of the meeting. We clock-watchers get value added in dates with our punctual friends, value diminished with our tardy ones. Children, exquisitely sensitive to adult behaviours signaling possible abandonment, and passionate lobbyists for predictability, experience this syndrome in disproportionate measure. (Conversely, columnists who file well before deadline are often taken completely for granted by their editors ....)

Some advice if you choose punctuality as your New Year's resolution: Always carry reading material. Also, when your unpunctual friends are more than five minutes late, turn off your cell phone. Your techno-enabled blame evaders won't get there any earlier, but you will at least have bulldozed the illusory moral high ground from under them. Finally, when they do eventually arrive, forgive them. Noblesse oblige.

© National Post 2004