Remember when you had this thing called ‘time’? I used to have heaps of it. So much so that there’d always be time left over.
I used to drop around at a friend’s house in the morning for a cup of tea and not leave until after lunch, and then still have some time left in the afternoon to go visit someone else.
If you drop around to see someone now they just look at you confused. Like you’re on the run. Like your house burnt down in the night and you’ve popped around to borrow spare clothes. You notice them watching the clock. It’s clear they don’t have time for this either. If they were honest they’d say, ‘Look, I love you, but can you leave?’
Middle-aged women don’t have any time. I am not interested in getting Botox, but I’d certainly consider a time injection. Time is the resource of the young. This was when I laid down most of my key friendships. We used to ‘hang out’. ‘Hang out’ is a non-specific way of getting together for no reason. Imagine that! People would visit me unannounced and leave two days later.
And I wouldn’t even resent them! I will admit at this point in my life there was always a mull bowl on the table, and while pot is renowned for its amazing time-melting abilities, I do remember still having quite a stash of time left when I stopped smoking weed.
I used to have time to go to the beach. On a Thursday. At 11am. Guilt free. To go to the beach on a weekday now I’d have to set the alarm for 4am and steal an hour before everyone got up. I used to not only have time to have an extensive network of friends that required regular visiting and getting drunk with I also had time to have a hobby. (Which was usually getting drunk with my friends.)
I actually went out socially. Sometimes I’d go out and not know where I was going. That is unheard of now. All outings are scheduled and have a specific planned agenda.
When I had time, I actually spent my time thinking of ways to use this excess of time I had. You see, at the time I didn’t know that time was precious. I thought I would always have these lofty deposits in my time bank. But now I’m overdrawn on something that apparently doesn’t even exist.
Every second of my day is diarised. There are no lovely fat rolls of time bulging out on my weekdays that allow even a small respite. Sundays used to be sacred. It was supposed to be the ‘nothing’ day. But now Sunday is the day I use to pick up all the balls I dropped during the week. Like washing the bin, or scrubbing the back deck or folding a mountain of clothes bigger than me, or standing naked in my laundry screaming ‘where am I?’
I used to get bored. I would actually wake up with nothing to do. No feeling of pending doom. When I woke up I rolled over and went back to sleep. Now I wake in terror. What fresh hell awaits me today?
I never understood that stupid book 50 Shades of Grey. Women don’t fantasise about being tied up or performing acts of domination. That’s just a whole other to-do list that has to be dealt with and includes challenging items like ‘gimp mask’, ‘cable ties’ and ‘stocks’. Okay, so I already have the cable ties, but who has time to turn their garage into a sex dungeon?
I fantasise about being bored. About actually having this long arc of time with absolutely nothing to do. No-one ringing or pinging me, asking for shit. Asking me to send something, write something, answer something, drive someone somewhere, pay something. Just nothing. Just me sitting on a chair staring at the wall. It’s quite a turn-on.
What a luxury boredom is. I don’t think I’ve been bored since 1992 when I enrolled in an ‘Understanding Windows’ course and passed out on the desk.
I actually think that was the beginning of the end. Time-saving devices like the computer have created a false economy by offering the illusion of efficiency but creating cyber dependence. We’re all techno junkies, who’ve indentured our time as payment for our virtual privileges, like being able to drop in on friends on Facebook instead of at their actual front door.
When I started looking through Windows full of work instead of Windows full of wonder my time budget just seemed to get tighter. My life became obese. Allocating time is like me fighting my way into a pair of size 10 jeans. I can still do it, but it’s not pretty. Cramming in the full lives of five children, maintaining a house, a relationship, I can still just get the zip up. Just.
So with Christmas on the doorstep you want to know what to get someone like me who has everything? Get them nothing. And lots and lots of it.
(Written at 5am.)
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
