I am a creature of habit. I like schedules and checklists, maps and files. Grocery store trips are never launched without a lengthy list, often written in the order I expect to tackle the aisles. Errands are grouped in the most efficient manner. I know deep in my soul that filling in calendar squares tames the chaos. A weekly planner still in its cellophane sets off waves of anticipation some people reserve for foreplay.
I live by the maxim, “Better an hour early than a minute late.” I’m the first person to the airport gate, the theatre, and the meeting.
Outlines for the novels I write litter my computer desktop like so much digital confetti. And by “litter” I mean, “placed in appropriately labeled, color-coded folders lined up and down my screen as precise and tidy as a high school marching band.”
All this to illustrate I do nothing at the last minute. So, imagine my surprise when a recent wild defensive swerve of my steering wheel—at the last minute—averted my literal last minute.