Tardiness: A Story with a Plot
by Karen Williams - Oviedo Voice - June 10, 2004
I've never believed in conspiracies. I've never worried that the government was out to get me, or that international banking was out to get me, or even that the Atkins low-carb fanatics were plotting to take way my buns. But now I know better. Conspiracies DO exist, and they can target even an innocent, unsuspecting teen-ager--a normal kid who spends time on the computer (often), does homework (a little less often), and promises to clean the hamster's cage sometime in the next decade.
Yes, my own teenage daughter, Emily (possibly not her real name), has become a victim of a cruel, insidious plot, rendered all the more terrifying by the conspirators' identity--in this case, NON-human.
By NON-human, I don't mean space aliens, although I'm starting to think that they, too, may be lurking in the bushes. I refer to the evil empire of Inanimate Objects that rules our once-happy home and makes my daughter late EVERYWHERE she goes.
Once, in the land of Not-So-Very-Long-Ago, Emily was just like me--crisply punctual. We prided ourselves on being on time. Once we were even two hours early for a tax audit. To us, punctuality said a lot about people: they're organized, efficient, dependable, guzzle Red Bull energy drink, and don't travel I-4.
But all that has changed for Emily, who is now a Guinness Book of World Records contender for most school tardies, beating out even Allen ("Snail") Cartwright's 1950 record. (He went on to a career in road repair and was later reported to be1-1/4 hours late for his own funeral.)
Each morning of eighth grade, Emily woke up early with good intentions of arriving at school on time. And almost every morning, the Inanimate Objects would trip her up at the last minute while I sat waiting for her in the car, checking my watch and chewing off my manicure.
The Inanimate Objects would actually take turns making Emily late. Sometimes it was the hair-dryer or clothes-dryer that were diabolically slow. Sometimes it was the sinister curling iron or hair-straightener that didn't work right. At other times, items such as shoes would hide in unlikely places, prompting a 20-minute search and coming forth only after they knew the school bell had rung. Frequently, our home's culinary care unit, the microwave, would act up and Emily couldn't nuke her Swanson's frozen breakfast, necessitating a run to 7-Eleven for emergency donuts.
Textbooks and homework papers, long considered innocuous by teachers, also joined this ugly little scheme. At the last second, as Emily prepared to exit for school, books and/or homework would gleefully hide under the sofa, under the dog, or under the floorboards, prompting a frantic, often futile, search and delay.
I regularly had to sign Emily in late at the front office and endured eye-rolling, lectures, and a blatant withholding of the Parent-of-the-Year Award. The only good aspect: school traffic jams are purely hearsay for me. As for Emily, let's just say that there's a whole lot less gum on the school sidewalks these days as a result of this scrape.
We hold no malice towards school officials. For all they know, Emily is just an incorrigible lazybones with a mom who's asleep at the switch.
Little do they imagine the vile conspiracy of Inanimate Objects. Little do they realize that hairbrushes, backpacks, and even computer messaging can connive to distract a teen when she least suspects.
Students of the world, be alert. Be vigilant. Be paranoid. Or be very, very tardy.
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Copyright 2004, Karen Williams
