You know how you always hear about the people who are chronically late? You know the ones: It’s hard not to notice them. They come in the door right as the professor/teacher/pastor is about to speak looking all shy and demure, maybe even trying to fold into themselves as all attention instantly zeroes in on them.
I’m not one of those people.
In fact, I’m the exact opposite. I’m chronically early. Note how I didn’t say on time. No, I said early. As in I’m there before I need to be there. I think it’s partly a fear of being late, partly a misjudgment of distance and time on my part. I always leave early because I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to get where I’m going. I walk quickly, so my feet eat up distances faster than time can pass. What I expect to take 30 minutes takes more like 10 or 15. I don’t mind this usually. I mean, there are definite advantages to getting somewhere first.
As a lefty, this pans out to mean that I get first dibs on all the good chairs. And by good chairs, I mean the ones on the end. I for one won’t end up fighting to get out in the event of a fire.
Being early also has its advantages in social situations. At parties, I know I have personal time with the host, which means if things aren’t exactly going my way, they won’t mind if I skip out a little early.
The dark side of being early is, well, who wants to be early? It’s not socially stigmatized per se, but it’s really kind of pointless since everybody else is late anyways.
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