Timing? Not a strength of mine. Never has been.
I was born early. Middle of the night. Raging snowstorm in Cleveland, Ohio. And I popped out at just 4-pounds, 2-ounces.
When I get in the shower, you can bet the washing machine is running a load of whites. On hot.
When a curse slips, there’s always a kid standing there.
When it’s easier to pee in the yard, I’ll look up, and have to wave at a neighbor mid-stream.
My own wife hates to travel with me, because she knows that when I fly, there will be delays and overnight-stays in connecting cities.
I bought a leaky RV last year. We had flooding rains within 5-hours.
Let’s not even get into my blood-squirting, lacerated wrist — suffered during a remodeling rip-out while my wife was out of town.
I believe the saying goes: “If it weren’t for bad timing, I wouldn’t have any timing at all.”
And I for one, am grateful for that.
If I hadn’t been recommended for a job on a busy weekend when I was moving into a new house, I probably wouldn’t be doing what I do today.
And if I hadn’t nearly burned down her apartment — or lost the car keys during a snowball fight, forcing us to stay three extra days in Füssen, Germany — Perhaps my wife and I wouldn’t have found that bond, that patience and trust, that emotional flexibility it takes to get married. And stay married.
Bad timing is, and always will be, my modus operandi.
And just when that “bad timing” starts to frustrate me; starts to drive me out of my mind — I can’t help but laugh, hang-on, and wait to see where it leads to next.