Early? Late? Learned? Hereditary?

The bedside clock reads 3:21 AM although the TV display says it’s 3:26. My alarm clock is always five minutes early. I am neurotic about being late. I want—need to be early. The clock in the car is set that way, too. Most of the time I arrive first wherever I go: a business meeting, lunch with a friend or an appointment with a client. My excuse for doing this could be explained—or at least rationalized. I am prepared for traffic, bad weather, accidents slowing down the roads.

Other people arrive a little bit late, occasionally. Nobody questions them or balks at the possibility of a five car pile-up on the Interstate. These things happen. “My alarm didn’t go off,” someone says entering the conference room just as everyone else is being seated. “There must have been a power outage during the night and my clock was flashing when I woke up.” That is perfectly acceptable. But not for me. I usually awake before the alarm to allow myself ample time for my morning rituals.

A few of my friends are chronically late. In the back of my mind, I keep track of which ones they are so I can remember to bring a book if I’m going to meet them. “Were you waiting long?” one might ask. A few minutes isn’t long but I meet one friend for lunch and she is never less than 15 minutes late. If I didn’t suffer from Allegro-phobia, I would adjust my schedule and not arrive 5 minutes before our scheduled time. No matter what, I can’t seem to do that. Even when the restaurant is only a few blocks away.

One would think that a person develops these idiosyncrasies during childhood, that it was learned behavior. My mother was always harping on us, “Hurry up, you’re going to be late.” Those words would resonate in my mind as I hurriedly dressed. And yet, my sister grew up in the same household with the same mother and she made no apologies for being a few minutes late. It was rarely more than a few minutes but still, how could that not bother her, I wondered. Often, she was exactly on time. For years I theorized that she was surreptitiously arriving early and then waiting in her car until the precise moment came to ring the doorbell. A few times I even waited by the window to see if that was the case. It was not. Maybe she was rebelling and I was conforming.

That wasn’t plausible. I rejected other habits growing up, ones that my sister adhered to. For example: I dress for comfort and ease. My mother always coordinated her outfits perfectly, matching her shoes, handbag and jewelry to go with her polyester pantsuit of the day. My sister doesn’t wear polyester pantsuits but she coordinates her clothing so that she is dressed differently but perfectly coordinated every day of the year, or so it seems. I’ve never seen her in the same clothes twice and she doesn’t believe in mix and match. Her second bedroom is filled with clothes. Not just her closet, either. The dresser drawers are full of pocketbooks, costume jewelry, scarves, belts and accessories. I own four pairs of jeans, one nice pair of black slacks, t-shirts from every concert I’ve been to in the last five years, four nice blouses for interviewing subjects of articles and a little black dress for the annual company Christmas party that my husband and I are obligated to attend. Who cares if it’s the same one each year? The ‘LBD’ never goes out of style and as long as it still fits I’m satisfied. Did I fail to mention the two mini-skirts I still wear?

I have not overcome my shoe fetish though. Since the foot surgery, wearing high heels was verboten. Doctor’s orders. I tried but could not totally accept those restrictions. I own a few pairs of flats and sneakers, but recently I found myself unable to resist a pair of exceptionally well hand-crafted, open-toed stilettos made partly from alligator skin accented with smooth black leather. The scalloped edges around the top of my foot were not lost on me when I first spied them in the store. The heels are almost five inches high plus the front sole has a ½” platform that is invisible unless someone takes them off and savors the deliciousness of the craftsmanship as I do. During a lifetime of a limited interest in clothes, I never denied myself a pair of shoes. The black ones were barely wearable and walking in them was an act of bravery that took practice before leaving the house.

Since buying them, I have been drawn back to that same shoe department where I indulged in a pair of patent leather heels, lipstick red with barely visible black streaks underlying the lacquer finish. They are my ruby slippers. I never want to be without a pair in case a tornado sweeps me up and I need a to click my heels in order to find my way home from the Land of Oz.

It is all a matter of priorities, I decided. Early or late or just on time? Carefully put-together outfits or t-shirts and mini-skirts with high heels? We may have inhabited the same womb at different times but my sister and I were too different animals who have little else in common.