I have all the time I the world.
This thought crossed my mind as I headed to the airport for a business trip.
The late-afternoon flight had essentially curtailed my workday. But I had time to make up the difference.
After all, my flight would take about two hours. I’d likely be at the gate for an hour more before boarding the plane. And once I landed ad my destination and made it to the hotel, I’d have an hour to tie up some last-minute work tasks. Easy peasy.
At least that’s what I thought.
But the flight was delayed. Then delayed again. Then moved to a different terminal. By the time I’d made it to my new gate, I had little time to boot up my computer and get anything substantive done. And the delay caused me to arrive at the hotel near midnight. No work nightcaps for me.
Add it all up — plus the time I had to stow my laptop for takeoff and landing — and four hours of asynchronous work time had been condensed into only one. Much of what I’d hoped to accomplish would have to wait for another day.
Time had gotten away from me.
My travel dilemma was not unique.
Indeed, there have been many other instances where I’ve misjudged how much time I’d have at my disposal.
This is not a failure of arithmetic. I have an MBA and spent three years producing evening television newscasts. I know my way around a math problem.
No, something deeper is at play here. My inability to probably allocate time is a failure of context.
You see, I consistently view time as finite. I see it as a set of 24 hourlong blocks that can be divvied up to meet the needs of the moment.
What I fail to consider are all the little complications that might eat away at that time. The moments spent walking from place to place, taking a bathroom break, or fielding an unexpected phone call.
These instances seem insignificant. And on their own, they might be.
But in aggregate, they can eat away at those blocks of time. They can wreck the most carefully laid plans.
They’ve laid waste to mine, time and again. But recently, I’ve tried to take control.
I’ve averaged out all those interruptions and run experiments from those findings. And all this work has led me to what I call the Rule of Three.
The Rule of Three dictates that I should split an open block of time into three parts. Two of those three parts should be dedicated to an inevitable slew of interruptions; I shouldn’t expect them to lead to productivity. But the third part can be devoted to completing substantive work.
This heuristic didn’t hold true when I got caught in travel limbo. I lost three quarters of my allotted time that day, not two-thirds.
But in general, it does hold water. And such knowledge has helped me navigate my day, set accurate deadlines, and even write my Words of the West articles.
Yes, the Rule of Three has been a game changer. But it doesn’t leave me feeling fulfilled.
For instead of thinking of what I accomplish during my productivity spurts, I’m left to consider the two-thirds that got away.
It’s my cross to bear.
This game I play — it’s hardly reasonable.
The clock might tick to a steady beat. The sun might rise and set at specific times each day. But few other elements of everyday life adhere to such precision.
Expecting perfection out of any aspect of life is a fool’s errand. I know this as well as anyone.
Yet, here I am, ruing any little blip that sets me off schedule. What gives?
Part of this is surely my own neurosis. My disdain for any semblance of laziness in my life causes me to account for every second of my day.
But a bigger part of this mindset is cultural. In fact, it’s a hallmark of our society.
Ever since the dawn of the industrial era, we’ve been encouraged to account for every minute. The transcontinental railroad gave us time zones and standardized clocks. Henry Ford gave us the assembly line and interchangeable parts. And the public education system gave us regimented schedules.
With each development, the message was clear. Time was not to be wasted.
Such ideals did have benefits. They helped America make the leap from a frontier nation to a superpower, and they created the playbook for a developed nation.
But the drawbacks have been just as stark. Skyrocketing instances of burnout, declines in quality control and the crushing weight of insecurity have all carried a heavy toll.
This system of extreme accountability asks more of us than we can reasonably expect to deliver on. It expects us to be machines, and to adhere to perfection. And that is something we can’t reasonably hold up to, either mentally or physiologically.
And so, we are destined to make a mess of time allotment. And we are bound to feel bad about it when it happens.
Our society wouldn’t have it any other way.
When I was a teenager, I’d often head to bed late. And in our family home, that meant one thing – I was responsible for turning off all the lights.
As I’d go through this process, I’d often find my father in his study, working under a solitary lamp.
My father – a schoolteacher – has always been a notorious procrastinator. He tends to start a dayslong project – such as grading papers or writing lesson plans – the night before it’s due.
I had no desire to follow the same path, so I played a little Jedi mind trick on myself. I would convince myself an assignment was due the day before it actually was, and then procrastinate leading up to my fake deadline.
This trick worked like a charm. I’d get my assignments in on time, every time. And my work would generally score high marks.
But now, I no longer have the same confidence in my technique. When pressed for a firm deadline on a project, I waffle.
Adulthood is complicated, with surprises at every turn. Calculating the Rule of Three on the fly is even tougher. Put both factors together, and I’m so overwhelmed that I’m tempted to shut down.
But I’m not a quitter. So, I try to overdeliver. I aim to get as much done in as little time as possible, knowing the odds are against me. And all too often, this process leaves me bitter and disappointed.
There’s a better way for me, and for all of us. So, it’s time for call it like it is.
We are human, and rigid time allocation processes are inhumane. We must give ourselves some slack to account for the variability of life. There is no other viable way forward.
So, from now on, I’m going to approach things differently. Instead of forecasting how much time I have at my disposal, I will simply strive to do my best and settle for what I accomplish.
This approach might not be sexy. But it should bring a balance of effectiveness and peace of mind.
And ultimately, that’s what matters.