Counting time…

Counting time…

I was married to my ex-wife for sixteen years.
We were together for seventeen.
Curiously,
I throw that number around like a badge of honor.

I’m remarried now.
It hasn’t been long.
Maybe five years?

Do you know what’s disturbing to me?
I can’t remember,
How long I’ve been married, that is.
I never seem to remember,
Anymore.

Then I had a thought.
Counting time is a symptom of something.

Think about it.
Let’s bring it back to childhood.
When you were doing your thing, whatever it was, you were lost in time.
Right?
For me it was playing in the river.
But when I had to mow the lawn?
Time?
It came to a screeching halt!
Or, when I’d get grounded.
However long it was, it would drag on.
I was hyperaware of every moment.

This has continued to be true throughout my life.
When I didn’t like to read, I’d count the pages.
I’d always know how many until the end.
When I fell into reading, the pages disappeared.
I read, and read, and read.
Books piled high.

So what’s happening today?
Time has lost its meaning.
I’m not counting.

But I got caught up with the idea that I should,
Count that is.

You know the story.
They were married for fifty years!
Wow, that’s amazing!

Why? Why is that amazing?
Should it be amazing?
It would only be remarkable if you viewed marriage as suffering.
Now, suffering for fifty years…
Yes, that’s remarkable.

But to be with your best friend,
Time becomes meaningless…