Do I need time? What does that even mean? I live by time. I run on it. I am time. My calendar and I are so in sync that if it ever disappeared, I might actually disintegrate like a Marvel character in the blip.

I don’t miss deadlines. I don’t hit snooze. My body is a self-winding watch that knows when to wake up, when to power down, and when to grab that emergency iced coffee. I am punctuality personified.

And yet, I also rush time. When I’m on the elliptical and I know there are 30 seconds left, I start counting. But here’s the thing, I count too fast. I make those 30 seconds into 18. The same happens in an MRI machine, where I’ve somehow convinced myself that internal fast-counting can warp the space-time continuum and get me out of that tube sooner. Spoiler: it never works.

I do the same thing when I’m doing jumping jacks or waiting for water to boil. I start a countdown, but my internal clock is basically on a triple shot of espresso. Two minutes becomes one. Boiling water becomes a psychological experiment.

It’s like I want to outrun time itself. But, as Boy George crooned with melancholic flair, “Time won’t give me time.”

Maybe I rush time because I want to be done with discomfort faster such as workouts, medical tests, or just that awkward lull between meetings. Maybe it’s my way of exerting control over something that, frankly, doesn’t care what pace I count at.

But here’s the irony. When I’m laughing with friends, petting my dogs, or savoring a perfect spoonful of peanut butter (yes, straight from the jar), I want time to slow down. I want it to linger.

So maybe I don’t need time. I need better boundaries with it. Sometimes I want to speed through. Sometimes I want to pause and rewind. And maybe that’s the trick.  Realizing that time isn’t just something you manage. It’s something you feel.

Even if I still count those 30 seconds a little too fast.