In middle school, my math teacher explained that time seems to move faster as you get older, because each year that passes is a smaller portion of your life. For example, a four year old who turns five just lived a quarter of her life over again. A ten year old who turns eleven just lived a tenth of her life over again. And a twenty year old who turns twenty-one lived just 5% of her life over again. And it’s so true: years move faster and faster. An hour seemed a wildly long time to wait when I was nine, but now I practically jump for joy when there’s only an hour left of work.
That math teacher changed the way I thought about time, but there was something else that really altered the way I experienced it. For two years, I dated a fellow named John. He was from Berkeley, like me, but he went to school in New York, and I went to school in Santa Cruz. He would come home during summer and winter breaks. I went to visit him during spring breaks (expensive!) In between those times, I would wait.
Each day I would wait until John would call me. I would wait until he had bought his plane tickets and I could draw hearts all over one date in my calendar. I would wait through three months of school. I would wait through finals week. I would wait for his plane to land. I would wait until he would rip me open again.
All time was divided into measurable amounts leading up to when I would see him again, graduation, and then into more nebulous regions of commitment. If a class was miserable, I just had to remind myself that after 45 minutes of class, I had just one more class to go, then I’d be home and could pass the evening how I pleased, and then I just had to do that two more times and it would be the weekend, and then I just had to do 4 more of those and he would be home. When I was far from seeing him, I would make just a few markers to seeing him, like counting weeks. When I was getting closer, I would keep many markers so that my excitement would be increased each time I passed one. Most of the time, even sitting around waiting was pleasant, because I had the ultimate reward waiting for me.
After a year of this, waiting became a science. I had just 11 weeks in a quarter, which was basically the maximum I would go between seeing him. I looked forward to midterms and finals, because those were just markers on my dash to spooning the shit outta him. Each Saturday night that I spent not doing anything because I was waiting for him to call-- and I didn’t want to do things without him anyway-- was just the end of one more week.
Time went by so fast. I made few friends sophomore and junior years. I didn’t talk to guys at all. I wouldn’t shave my legs between seeing him. I was just waiting. I didn’t do fun things or go out much. I didn’t care about anything but John. John John John. I just passed time.
Once our relationship ended, I was able to experience time as something which I could use, not merely something to finish. Having set myself free, I no longer waited. Instead, I enjoyed myself. I got control of my life and did the things that I felt like doing. Each day was no longer a barrier to some time in the future, but rather a chance to make myself happy in that moment. I stopped counting weeks and began to look at what each day had to offer.
Now I have a choice about how I feel towards time. When I’m at work, I just keep my eyes on the prize: winter break, then January, then I’m quitting. I savor the moments when I’m at a show or with my sister. I hold onto them, squeeze them, and let the feeling tumble around inside of me as long as I can. Time is hella relative, and is completely subjected to the way you view it. Time is a treadmill, but it’s up to you how fast you want to go.
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