It is 5:00 p.m. on a recent weeknight, and I am disappointed in how I have spent my day at the office. I wrap up my timesheet, shoot a text message to my husband that I am heading home, and remind myself of the plot of my current Audible book (my drive-home luxury.) Qualitatively, the day has been an enormous success. My litigation efforts successfully located a client’s collateral, I agreed to take a contingent fee case for someone of modest means who was profoundly grateful, I successfully negotiated a settlement that exceeded everyone’s expectations, and I mentored an associate attorney who appeared grateful, or at least expertly feigned gratitude, for my feedback.
But my timesheet only reflects 6.3 hours. I have been at the office for nine hours, and I usually work through lunch. In a typical day, I waste an hour or so chatting with my partners, fixing lunch, tidying up my desk, and watching a few Facebook happily-ever-after rescue dog videos. But I am short 2.7 hours, and I honestly do not know how to account for them. Capturing workday tasks has been a decades-long frustration.
My relationship with time troubles me in ways other than office tasks. I no longer clock my morning runs; I select a route and ignore my watch at both the start and the finish. My pesky Fitbit still counts steps and minutes, of course, but I do not consciously acknowledge them. I know that I am slower than I was a year ago, and unless I train hard, I will be even slower a year from now. I used to check my watch at mile increments during races; now I am just grateful to finish. Tracking time during exercise ruins the experience of it.
Intellectually I know that time travels at the same pace regardless of how I perceive it. The start of a cold, dark, and damp run always converts to refreshing and stirring with the distant glow of an emerging sunrise; I just cannot predict exactly when. I also know that the level of effort will dissipate at some point, which though not calculable with precision, occurs without fail. It is a promise that is never broken, no matter how cynical my attitude is at the start. The promise that running makes to me is that if I begin, I will be rewarded for it.
Time flies when you are having fun, and people say that it slows during unenjoyable activities. That is not my perspective. I do not enjoy lifting weights, sitting in the dentist chair, or reviewing and editing prebills. But the clock moves predictably and painlessly during those activities. But when I am bored, time passes so sluggishly that slugs look like sprinters in comparison. Waiting in a parking lot after arriving early for an appointment; listening to boring Continuing Legal Education seminars and viewing professional sports commentary about a team I do not care about is torture. I glance at the clock on my cell phone repeatedly, convinced that the software is aberrant.
There are experiences when times passes too quickly, when it elusively slips through the grasp of my eager fingers – moments that I want to capture with photographic precision. I remember seeing one of my adult children look at his partner with unblemished adoration. I recall whispering to a beloved family pet in her last minutes and seeing gratitude and acceptance in her eyes. I have instances of extreme physical effort while running where the world disappears and silences, wrapping me in a solitary bubble of self-perception.
And then there are moments when my husband grabs my hand with intention for absolutely no reason. Time stands still.