The Society of Dawdling

After a lifetime of racing through existence like a frightened squirrel that had accidentally wandered into a hardware store, I have reached a conclusion that is as revolutionary as it is overdue.

I have resigned from the rat race. Not because I lost, mind you, but because I finally looked around and noticed the rats were receiving promotions for running faster on a wheel that never traveled an inch.

I remain a loyal member of the human race, though I confess the distinction grows harder to defend every year. Humanity has become convinced that the fellow who answers an email in thirty seconds possesses greater virtue than the fellow who sits on his porch for an hour watching a cloud resemble his uncle’s mustache.

We have somehow mistaken urgency for importance, and busyness for accomplishment. It is also a remarkable achievement to make doing nothing feel like hard work. I have therefore enrolled myself in a new profession.

I shall dawdle.

A man who dawdles is often accused of wasting time, but I have observed that time is one of the few things that insist upon wasting itself, whether a man helps it along or not. Yesterday disappears just as thoroughly for the industrious banker as it does for the old fisherman who spends all afternoon arguing with a pelican over whose lunch it really was.

The world has become suspicious of anyone who walks without appearing to chase something. If a person pauses on the sidewalk to admire a flower, strangers assume he has misplaced his wallet.

If he sits on a park bench feeding pigeons, someone eventually asks whether he has retired. Retirement, in modern language, means a man has finally become too exhausted to continue pretending every meeting could have been an email.

The rat race has peculiar customs. Its participants proudly announce they are “slammed,” “buried,” or “crazy busy,” as though these were medals awarded for exceptional suffering.

They stagger about with coffee in one hand and a telephone in the other, forever promising to slow down next month. Next month arrives carrying another calendar and another excuse.

I intend to become an embarrassment to such people. I shall stroll without destination, linger at conversations that have nowhere to go, and inspect old buildings as though they have personally invited me.

I may even stand beside a creek and skip stones until I have forgotten entirely what I was supposed to accomplish that afternoon. No doubt my decision will alarm certain ambitious acquaintances.

They will fear that dawdling is contagious, and perhaps it is. There is great danger in watching someone enjoy his day without consulting a schedule every seven minutes.

Such behavior threatens the entire economy of unnecessary meetings and motivational seminars. Besides, I have reached an age where speed has become overrated.

Every time I hurry, I discover I have arrived at the same disappointment everyone else was rushing toward. There is no prize for being first in line to pay bills, wait at the doctor’s office, or discover that the grocery store has once again rearranged the cereal aisle.

So let the rats continue their race with all the enthusiasm civilization demands. I wish them luck, sturdy shoes, and a generous supply of antacids.

As for me, I shall wander off in no particular direction, and dawdle with the quiet confidence of a man who has finally discovered that the shortest distance between two points is often a pleasant detour.