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It’s almost February. The cold turns my hands into sandpaper. The snow keeps my beloved Camaro hitched to a parking spot. The wind snatches my breath away without warning. If winter brought simple annoyances like these I could handle it, but this year it also delivered a crippling sense of time.

Time is the worst mangler in my life. I might have too much of it, which leads to boredom. I might not have enough, which leads to panic and poor performance. I might have just the right amount, until someone comes along and asks for help I can’t refuse to give. It might be the right or wrong time, which both come with similar anxieties. I can have a good time, a bad time, a fun time, a time for the ages or any other combination. All this talk about it doesn’t seem to be worth my time, but I can’t help it.