Wendy Late

Hi, ya'll!  My name is Wendy Tate, but people call me Wendy Late because, well, I have trouble showing up places on time.  Matter of fact it's kind of my defining characteristic, which I suppose explains the nickname.  In a world of uncertainty, the one constant my friends and family can be assured of is that I will not, ever, be on time for anything involving them.
   Let me tell you why.
  It's not because I don't have a clock, because I do.  I have a cell phone that's practically glued to my hand and my head whenever I'm awake.  There's a clock on that thing, and it's synchronized to the national atomic clock in Colorado.  Like all cell phones are. 
  It's not because I forget I have places to be.  If that were the case then you'd never see me, I wouldn't walk through the door.  I actually do show up, but I take my own sweet time about it.
  It's not because something came up at the very last minute.  If that were the case then I wouldn't be late ALL the time, I'd only be late every once in a while.  Like normal people.
   I'm not just late to your things.  I'm late to things I organize too.  Which is really kind of an amazing feat if you sit and think about it.  I'm habitually late even to things I set the schedule for.  Wow.
   So why am I late ALL the time?  It's really a very simple explanation, not complicated in the least.
   I don't respect other people.
  You're just not important enough for me to take a moment and consider that maybe you have things to do in a day that don't involve waiting half an hour or more for me to make an appearance.  I don't care about you or your time.  The least important thing I have to do today - say, trim my toenails - is ten times more important to me than the most important thing you have to do.  My world revolves around me, and I don't see any reason yours shouldn't revolve around me as well.
   For example:  we're going to meet for lunch.  We talk beforehand on my ever-present cell phone, and we agree we'll meet at 11:30.  You know I'm not going to be there at 11:30, I know I'm not going to be there at 11:30, but for the sake of appearances we both maintain the illusion that we'll be sitting for a meal together at 11:30.  I don't start getting ready until 11 AM.  It takes me at least half an hour to get ready, and another half an hour to drive to the restaurant, which puts us at 12 PM at the earliest.  This is if I don't get distracted with a phone call - because nothing is more important than answering my phone - or exfoliating, or taking out the garbage, or any of a thousand other tiny little things that I could easily do some other time but that I feel the need to accomplish before I decide to be in your company.
   The inevitable has happened and I'm late.  Big surprise.  I won't be at the restaurant at 11:30, even though you've done the considerate thing and gotten there by 11:25.  But do I feel the need to call you?  Absolutely not, even though, as I've said, my cell phone has been surgically attached to my hand.  Why do I refuse to call?  Because if I call and tell you I'll be late I've admitted that I'm wrong, and that just can't happen.  Nothing I do is wrong.
  When I'm late, I've automatically put myself in a position of power over you.  You're on MY schedule, bitch, like it or not.  I also don't call to tell you I'll be late, letting you know you're not important enough for even that minor courtesy, and then I don't apologize when I do saunter in.  You get to wait on me because, let's face it, you're just not as important as I am.
   You suck, I don't.  That's it.  That's the totality of my explanation.  I pretend I respect others, and I certainly claim to respect others, but my behavior tells a completely different tale.  Too bad for you, loser.

See you later  (HA!, get it, later...),
-- Wendy Late