Alright, now, Father Time, this is getting really ridiculous.

I’m not the kind of person to wish my weeks away. I like my days to go slowly so I can drink in every moment—I’m a hippie that way. Through preschool and grade school and high school I didn’t spend my days wishing I was a year older. Birthdays were bittersweet occasions for me, knowing that I would never see 8, 9, 10, 16, or 18 ever again. While all the other girls looked forward to being 21, I just wanted to go back to 12. Twelve was a good year for me. But I patiently wended my way through the teen years, never asking for a quicker day than the normal 24 hours. I’ve never been demanding about time, Father Time sir, and never have I wished for any more than what you’ve given me at the moment.

And this is how you repay me. Making the weeks fly by before I have a chance to blink. Snipping away minutes from each day so I slip in as the weekly meeting is wrapping up even though I ran the whole way there. Carving out whole hours from me where I could have been doing other things but was too busy running from place to place. You make the hours between Monday morning and Friday evening shrink, squashing me flat in the process. The days are flying. Why, Time? Why?

Yesterday I was 14 and full of vivacity. Today I’m in my 20’s and feeling like I’m on the fast-track to who-knows-where. What’s up with that, Father Time? What did I ever do to you?

My life has always been so beautiful. If only time could slow down a little so I could stop and savor it. If only, if only.