Time: A Sexy, Blowing-A-Kiss-At-You-From-The-Cover-Of-Maxim God

In my early twenties, for a variety of unworthy, angsty reasons I went a bit loopy, blowing through a wad of expensively borrowed money and generally getting out of my undesirable skull. It was, at the time, referred to by those around me as a mid-life crisis, which was hilarious because a) if I’d carried on like that I would never have made it any where near forty, and b) clearly I wasn’t even near to the half way point of my time here. It was just an amusing way to describe an idiot, without having to actually engage with it. Recently I over indulged in alcohol – because I’m a responsible adult – and was being consciously ridiculous when someone made that same joke. “Maybe you’re having a mid-life crisis”. 
Oh how we laughed. 
Then, when I got home, and after I’d finished my KFC and stopped feeling nauseous, I stopped laughing and thought: shit, actually, I’m probably not that far off halfway now. The only thing that stopped a full blown panic attack was the knowledge that I wouldn’t ever have an actual mid-life crisis. Still holding out for a mid crisis life though.
So, freshly reminded of my mortality – and let us not forget, drunk – I wrote a list of things I’ve achieved and things I haven’t. It was utter bollocks, but the items on the list are irrelevant. The title, however, is not. Rather tellingly I had chosen to name it ‘Almost Dead, Things To fix’. Now, dramatic use of ‘almost’ aside, the bit of this that should concern is my (inebriated) belief that completing certain goals was fixing something. As if there is a defined set of actions, life stages or possessions that make you complete, or stop you being a failure.
I remember, at around the age of six or seven, wondering when time would become an issue to me. I’d picked up on the idea that older people seemed to want to be younger and younger people just couldn’t wait to be grown-ups. I could see that everything was designated a time slot, that you were supposed to act your age, that being childish was used as an insult and that I never, ever wanted to care. Of course, by the time I hit eight it was too late. Nowadays I rent on the border of Doesn’t Mattersville and Be Concious Of Its Passington, which is the best place to be because owning property in either of those locations is a poor investment. The most interesting thing about ageing as a Grown Up is how other people think you should be, just generally, as a human being. I’m no longer meant to go to the skate park or go on the swings, at this age it is frowned upon to find women under the age of 25 sexually attractive (apparently), I should have a car and a mortgage, or at least a deposit. I should be a Grown Up. I’m not, so quite a large section of society marks me Immature. I should act my age. Well, I don’t have to. I am my age.
Another fascinating embodiment of my passing time is the growth of my spawn. Not only does the natural wonder of her physical and mental development serve as a constant reminder that I will die, it also allows me to see the way time works from the other side, to experience it in a child-like way whilst retaining my understanding of it. The student becomes the tired, frustrated pack mule, but it does help remind one that the best way to enjoy it is to remind yourself to forget it’s there, finite existence that is. Time isn’t really real anyway, not really, it’s a made up thing. It doesn’t even have wifi.

While it is bloody interesting to watch time, in its kind of self created, non existent, all encompassing, changing, maintaining, kooky kinda way, it’s absolutely pointless to fight it. Death is coming, this will all be dust. Yes, even your iPhone. Yes, and that. Nothing to nothing, but that’s alright, relieving even. That means it doesn’t really matter. I can go on the swings. I can go on the swings drunk. I can go on the swings drunk with a girl my peer group strongly disapprove of. Point is, like an increasing number of things, time (Time?), how we spend it and what it makes us, has become fetishised. Its importance has been inflated and its results over analysed. It might be the closest thing we have to a God. A man made, self perpetuating God. Except a sexy, blowing-a-kiss-at-you-from-the-cover-of-Maxim God who knows how to capitalise on trending social media topics in order to sell you immortality, invincibility and lifelong effervescence in a thrice-a-day cream that just ends up giving you erectile dysfunction and saggy boobs. I’m not going to get too into this. It’s time, I’m not going to try to understand time, I don’t really understand how this laptop works, or how my fingers work, or anything, so time is going to have to wait. Ha! Brilliant.

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