[Please Note: I do not take real mental illness lightly, and I mean no offense to anyone who has a legitimate medical condition. In other words, this article is meant to be humorous.]

I have heard it said that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over, expecting a different result next time.

Here is an example: I have a bit of a punctuality problem (Pause here to wait for Hubby to finish laughing). 

Like most people, I know with some degree of accuracy how long it takes to get myself ready in the morning. With each job I have had, or whatever school I have attended, I also knew how long it would take to walk or drive to get to school or work. However, when I would calculate the time to get ready and add the transportation time, and set my alarm clock to allow for this much time, I was always late. I could not comprehend the problem, nor could I devise a solution.

For the first 23 years of my life, I allowed myself the delusion that I was just “one of those people who can’t be on time for anything.” I had been on time for my birth – right on my mother’s due date, but I had been late for everything since then.

Now, I could just blame my problem on my lack of mathematical skills. When calculating how long I needed for my morning routine, I usually neglected to factor in the snooze alarm component of the equation. Neither did I consider the time spent waiting for the bathroom as part of my morning routine, since that was not my fault.

My transportation time was based on how long it would take if the roads were in good condition (I live in Canada – where this can change from day to day), if all of the lights were green, and there were no trains to stop for, and no slow farm equipment to get stuck behind. I also based this calculation on the actual driving time from my garage to the parking lot at work. I failed to take into account the time it would take to find a parking spot, walk from the car to the building, hang up my jacket and change my boots (Canada, remember?) for indoor shoes, get a cup of coffee, and walk to the first place I would need to be.

I have always wanted to be on time, and I have always been apologetic to those whom I have kept waiting for me. I think that I may have viewed “Punctuality challenged” as a mental illness for which there was no cure.

When I started teaching, my principal seemed to think that punctuality was more of a character issue than a mental illness. He pointed out flaws in my logic. He told me to hold myself to the same standards that I expected of my students – I expected them to be on time, but I did not apply this standard to myself. After all, I was always on time for class; I was only late for the staff devotional meeting that we had every morning.

At 23 years of age, I finally learned the secret to punctuality: margins. Margins are the “cushion minutes” that need to be added to the length of time I think something ought to take. At last, I accepted the reality that I am not capable of getting myself ready in one hour; I need one and a half hours. I also learned a bit about probability statistics: if I have three sets of railroad tracks to cross on my way to school, the odds of having to wait for a train at least at one of them was a fair bit higher than 0%. I also started taking the parking time into consideration, as well as the time it took me to hang up my coat, change my footwear, get my coffee, and walk to the staffroom. And I am pleased to announce that by my fifth (and final) year of teaching there, I was finally showing up on time more often than not.