Time Damagement

Someone once said, "When you're early, nobody notices. When you're late, everybody notices." For years, everybody noticed me. 

Time Damagement
Copyright, Teece Aronin

I had a terribly hard time getting where I needed to be especially if that "where" was work and the time was anything prior to noon. Now I have a unique system of time management that works like this:

The first thing I do every morning after shutting off the alarm is pour myself a cup of coffee. Then I sip the coffee as I'm going about my morning routine. Brush my teeth, take a sip of coffee. Put on make-up, take a sip of coffee. Chew out a kid, take a sip of coffee.

As long as any coffee remains in the cup, I'm still on time. The concept is similar to that of an hour-glass; the lower the coffee level, the sooner I have to leave for work.

This system has the side benefit of reassuring me every time I think I might need to step it up a little. I just peek into my cup and if there's coffee, all is well. If I need a little more time, I just sip more slowly and a little less often.

Another way to finesse this system is to use a jumbo mug instead of a cup. Say the alarm didn't go off; by filling an over-sized mug with coffee, I've automatically added time, just as if I'd poured more sand into the hour glass; perfect in its simplicity.

Upon my arrival at work, the system automatically adjusts to work in reverse. The more coffee I consume and the faster I consume it, the faster the day flies until before I know it, I'm home in the bosom of my family with enough residual buzz to throw dinner on the table in under 10 minutes. With a little too much residual buzz, I sometimes throw the dinner and miss the table, but messy mishaps are what children and dogs are for.

I had such faith in this system that I decided to toss it out to my friends to see what they thought. So one day on Face Book I posed the question: "In the morning, if there's still coffee in my cup, does it not follow that I'm not yet late?"

After some very tight competition for the title of Most Obnoxious Commenter, the award went to my friend, Prickly Pete who wrote: "Yes, it does not follow."

I'd like to see Prickly manage his morning routine using nothing but coffee.

Life sure is a lot easier with my caffeinated time management system. The only downfall as far as I can tell is that the earlier I run in the mornings, the shakier my hands get. That having been said, my self-esteem is much higher now; so much so that I'm considering becoming a consultant and marketing my system to physicians. 

And maybe I can barter out a deal with one of them: my consulting services for free treatment of my hand tremor. 

Dial D for Dick

Years ago, I was a headhunter who recruited actuaries.

Proof positive of how much I
love being on the phone.

An actuary's work is a little like an accountant's, only snore-ier. They’re the ones who calculate probability of death and things like that and they often work for insurance companies.

I’ll preface this by saying that I was a bad recruiter; I was a very bad recruiter. I was such a bad recruiter that I spent less time at my desk than I did hiding in the ladies’ room. I lacked sales skills and I hated being on the phone, which I was, almost constantly, when I wasn’t in the bathroom – in other words: roughly half the day not counting my lunch and two coffee breaks.  

Worse was that the nature of my work, talking someone into quitting a job and hooking up with my client’s company, felt to me like stealing. Whenever I tracked down an actuary who qualified for a position I was looking to fill, got him on the phone and pitched the opportunity, I was nervous and awkward and couldn’t get the words out. I hated being a recruiter.

One day, I dragged my sorry carcass onto the phone for another day of telephonic misery. I was trying to reach a man by the name of Dick Smith (I’m making up the last names but the Dicks were real) and called into the company where the phone was answered by a receptionist.

“Hello,” I said as nonchalantly as possible, “May I speak with Dick Smith?”

"Just a moment," she said before transferring my call. Seconds later a man answered.   

           

“Dick here.”

           

I introduced myself, rising above the knots in my stomach then launched into the details of the job. I must’ve prattled on for three minutes straight with Dick listening politely, asking an occasional question, then allowing me to continue. When I finally shut up, he said, “That sounds like a terrific career move, but you're looking for Dick Smith and I'm Dick Jones. Hang on while I transfer you.”

           

Instantly my stomach resurrected my breakfast and I began catastrophizing the horrible end now awaiting Dick Smith and his family: rumors flying that he talks to headhunters, his boss firing him and his wife divorcing him. What felt like hours was just seconds before a husky, elegant female voice cut in: “Mr. Smith’s office; this is Phyllis.”

“Hello, Phyllis. I called in a few minutes ago and asked to speak with Dick Smith – you know him, he’s your boss." Of course she knew that Dick Smith was her boss. “Anyway, I called in and asked for him, but somehow I was transferred over to Dick Jones and must have talked to him for almost five minutes before he told me that he wasn’t Dick Smith at all, but was actually Dick Jones. So anyway, it was just a bit of a mix-up and I’m hoping you can help me, because you see, it turns out that after all that talking, I'd totally gotten hold of the wrong Dick.”

There was an exquisitely timed pause before Phyllis, cool as an April breeze, replied, “A mistake any woman could make.”

I’m happy to say that I’m no longer an actuarial recruiter but I have no idea what happened to either Dick after that.

They probably work for Phyllis now.