Like most people, I was born with 38,894,400 minutes to do with as I please before I depart this earth and embark on my journey into the next life. If I’m lucky, I’ll be reincarnated as a sexier model of my earthly self, with a chance to marry Amy Darowitz, have 10 kids, go to Harvard Law School and become a managing partner at Cohen, Beckermann, Feuchtwanter and Hincklestein. Short of that, I’ll just have to make the best of the time I’ve been given.
Time is such a nebulous concept that I’ve felt the need to explore it on more than one occasion. The first time was literally the day after I was born. Lying in a bassinet, a diaper filled with digested Similac, time came to a screeching halt. Then I discovered that if I cried loud and hard enough, I could make anyone – including my mother – drop what they were doing and immediately attend to my personal needs. In essence, I had the ability to accelerate time. A few years later, I learned that I could slow time down by bringing home a crappy report card. “Wait until your father gets a load of this,” threatened my mother. Anticipating my father’s leather belt across my heinie, the afternoon couldn’t have moved slower if I was Moses leading the Israelites out of Egypt.