Every morning I wake up to the normal sun shooting through the window, blinding me as I try to open my eyes. My dog, Percy, licking my face off. He insists that every morning at exactly 7:04, she has to go outside. It really is starting to annoy me. Can’t that damn dog just rest?
After I go outside for exactly 3 minutes, I realise I have to deal with my boss in exactly 48 minutes. I sit and moan for two minutes. Any more I would be late and any less I would be early: it has to be exactly two minutes. Afterward, I do my normal six-minute shower, I take another 6 minutes to brush my hair, 4 minutes to brush – just like the dentist told me – and five minutes to figure out what I am going to wear today. That leaves me 4 minutes to sit and read The Daily Telegraph and moan about having to drive 20 minutes to a job that I can’t stand. Once I arrive, it takes 2 minutes to hear the lame story about what Ron, the guy two cubicles down, did last night and four minutes ’til I get to hear my boss complain that I never do anything right.
Spending 9 and a half hours at my job, driving 26 minutes home, taking two minutes to take Percy out and only getting 25 minutes to myself before lying down in my hard, cold bed and not falling asleep for another 12 minutes can really drive someone crazy. At least that is what my therapist tells me. But it doesn’t make me crazy; it makes everyone else crazy for not wanting to know how much time they actually have.
The thing that will make you crazy is if something goes wrong. Something that has been happening the same way for exactly 12 years. When that one thing goes wrong, all hell breaks loose. For instance, if you wake 46 minutes late because there is no damn dog barking for you to take him out. Which causes you to be late to work, because you have a 20-minute drive and only 2 minutes to get there. Then you decide in...