Here's What Happened When I Tried to Be Punctual for a Week

A nickname my family and boyfriend have given me is Late Lindsey. For years—over a decade, even—I've had trouble being on time for things. I'm certain it's hereditary. I vividly remember standing on the sidewalk outside of school long after the other kids had gone home, waiting for my mom to pick me up only because she'd leave the house too late (quite hypocritical of her to give me such a nickname, no?). But it's a selfish habit that's ingrained into my routine. I'll know I need to leave the house immediately in order to reach my destination on time, and still, I'll continue curling my hair or checking my email or doing some sort of nonsensical task that definitely doesn't need to be done at that very moment. Then, I'll look down at the clock, yell some sort of expletive, and run out my apartment like a tornado, panicking the entire commute—perhaps shooting off some apology texts or emails.

It's incredible, really—I'm consistently 20 to 30 minutes late wherever I go, so you'd think if I just factored in that extra time, I'd never have an issue. But the truth is, I'm what psychologists call an "idealist." I convince myself I can continue lounging in my robe because "I can do my hair quickly" or "do my makeup in the Uber there," but really, I end up leaving the house way later than I should have. It's truly not deeper than that—I don't have any deep-seated inner monologue that's using lateness as a form of rebellion or to make a statement. I'm just a poor planner. So for a week straight, I decided to flip my lack of punctuality on its head, hoping it would develop into a habit. The result, below.



Forever 21