OnTime OnTime OnTime

I curse my punctuality. I curse it! It always ends up putting me in awkward predicaments. And you’d think I would learn. You would THINK that. But I don’t. Just the thought of being late to something and having to awkwardly walk in and have everyone stare at you just isn’t appealing to me at all. That’s what drives me when I leave early to arrive early.

I’m not often fashionably late. I can’t remember the last time I was fashionably late. Late and Kendall just don’t go into the same sentence. Yes, I can own up to my OCD about the matter. But I figure there could be worse things and being on time can only be beneficial in the long run. I know my boss appreciates my punctuality. I appreciate my punctuality.

Yesterday, I did not appreciate my punctuality. I was meeting a friend for dinner at Southcenter (curse.) at 6. First of all, I don’t like Southcenter, it can burn. The traffic and the parking and the congestion and the idiots and the people in driving school and the lights and the crowds and the congestion and the parking and the congestion. I don’t LIKE IT. I never, ever, ever go without a fight. Unless it’s a) to see a movie (because that parking is usually manageable), or b) to meet a friend I haven’t seen in a long time for dinner. THOSE ARE THE ONLY TWO INSTANCES when you will not hear me moan/groan.

Although if we’re running late for a movie, you’ll hear plenty from me. I promise.

So anyway, I left my house early because I needed to put some gas in the car. I left at 5:20 because I figured once I got to Olive Garden, it was a Sunday night in the summer and it would probably be hoppin’. Well, I overestimated my timing. Pumping $12 worth of gas takes like, 1 minute and 48 seconds. I’m good at maneuvering traffic. Most of the lights were in my favor. I ended up at Olive Garden at 5:40.

There was a bustling crowd so I figured I’d go put my name on the list. The helpful hostess told me it would be 15-20 minutes and handed me a buzzer. I looked at my phone, and prayed it would be longer. Who…wants to get seated by themselves…? Not me. I texted my friend and told him what was up. He was just getting on the freeway from Federal Way. He told me if I get seated to just text him where I was.

Chant to small buzzer in my hand: Please don’t go off. Please don’t go off. PLEASE don’t go off.

So it did, of course. After a whole 8 minutes. So then the host, who couldn’t have been more than a senior in high school, led me alone to my seat. And he was nice enough to make sure someone really was coming to meet me: “So, you’re meeting someone?”

I just wanted to be like, “No. Nope. Sometimes I like to come to Olive Garden alone just to simmer in my own thoughts whilst I listen to this Italian music and let the aroma of breadsticks fill my nostrils. YES, I’M MEETING SOMEONE.” Why else would I ask for a table for two? Come. On.

And there I proceeded to sit, whilst my waiter (whose real name was Cornelius, I kid you not, I would not lie to you!) doted upon me and brought me endless glasses of water (with ice) and awkwardly lingered around my table. Keyword there was awkwardly. Finally my friend showed up, right on time as we had agreed upon: 6.

DAMN THE PUNCTUALITY. Damnit.