Last week, as I was stuffing the world’s best snack, the banh mi, the Vietnamese sandwich specifically from the dark little hole under the Manhattan bridge that’s open only five hours a day, down my gullet in a frenzied urge to maximize the sweet-hot-crispy-gooey-meaty-veggie taste sensation, I was also contemplating how it is that I’m chronically late.

I never used to be this way. I used to be the one standing on street corners, looking at my watch tick past the hour mark. I used to arrive early for important events, so I’d be all calm and prepared. Now I don’t even have a watch–except for that green flower one, which I try not to wear to important events, as it undermines my credibility–and that might be part of the problem.

I also blame the year I spent in Cairo, where time is a bit looser. Not to trade in third-world stereotypes, but when it’s hot out and you have to push past 18 million people to get where you’re going, well, your friends will understand if you show up at 6:30 instead of 5. And there’s some tea or mango juice or a cold beer to drink wherever you go, so it’s not like they’ll be put out by waiting.

When I moved to NYC in 1998, straight from Cairo, most of my friends were people I had known in Egypt, so we just continued our blase ways: call someone up, say you’ll meet them somewhere like the Sudanese-hooker bar later that evening, then sit back to read the paper or take a nap until the sun sets. I knew deep down that this wasn’t the way real people socialize in this city–non-Cairo types were always trying to make dates with me a month in advance. But I resisted that planning, trying to hold on to the sloppy spontaneity of Egypt, and part of the resistance was to treat hard-and-fast appointments very casually.

In the category of hard-and-fast appointments, I had also discovered a year or so before that it didn’t matter much if you missed your plane. You just show up, look a little wild-eyed and frazzled and apologetic, and they put you on the next flight. [Disclaimer: It’s not quite so true anymore–there’s now a risk of getting charged a change fee.] This opened up a very dangerous door, as I absolutely hate arriving at the airport too early, because there’s nothing good to eat (except now at LaGuardia they have those Artisanal cheese plates at Au Bon Pain), and the hum and fluorescent lights are just too grim. My dream mark, which I’ve hit only a couple of times, is to sashay straight out of security and up to the gate, where they’re just finishing boarding and no one is in line. (I know, I know–if you miss the plane, then you’re at the airport several hours early for your next flight…but somehow there’s this petty satisfaction of bucking the system that makes up for it.)

So I started to let things like packing the night before slip. And then I discovered that the people at my salary job didn’t care when I showed up, as long as shit got done. But then I had to basically fire someone for not showing up in time to get his shit done, so I had to start setting a better example. About that time, not coincidentally, I quit and started freelancing. And I got some jobs that involved going to Mexico, where there’s no sense leaving your current pleasurable situation just to get to another one at an abstract hour — which, again not coincidentally, is also my school of thought. And I got a lot of friends who also don’t have regular day jobs or fixed schedules or the wrath of the boss hanging over them if they’re late.

But some of those friends, including Peter, my co-banh-mi eater last week, do manage to show up places on time, even while projecting a completely lax attitude. So it made sense that it was Peter who pointed out, while my mouth was full of crispy, anise-spiked Vietnamese sausage coated in mayo, that maybe the city clerk office closes at 3pm, and it was 2:45 just then (we’d barely made the cut-off on the sandwiches–they run out pretty early in the afternoon).

We were going to the city clerk so Peter could make an honest woman of me–that is, get me health insurance by making me his domestic partner. Which is legit because, if you think about it, all the meals we’ve cooked together over the years constitute a pretty good definition of domestic partnership, and should be included under the law.

But City Hall is pretty close to the Vietnamese sandwich place, so it made no sense to go down there and not get sandwiches. And since the sandwiches run out early, we had to go get them first, which involved a long line because they can only make five at a time in their little toaster oven. And then we had to eat them while they were still hot. And then we looked at Peter’s watch.

While we were walking double-quick over to City Hall, wiping crumbs off our shirts and slurping the rest or our iced coffees, Peter explained his time attitude to me: the only way he could justify his no-work, seemingly lazy (OK, really lazy) lifestyle to other people was if he at least showed up to places on time.

I’d been overreaching, I realized. Totally exploiting my position. Worse, I’d been feeling guilty about being late and stressing out over it — spending my whole subway ride concocting excuses, and being secretly happy if something did go wrong, because then I could honestly say there’d been problems with the train. I vowed to turn over a new leaf, to wear a watch and make allowances for the train being held up, and not be afraid of arriving somewhere early.

But then we got to the city clerk’s, and found it was open until 3:45. Nooooo problem. Or mafeesh mishkila, as you’d say in Egypt. Immediate setback to my resolution, of course.

I was 20 minutes late for my copy editing job this morning. But I ate a really nice breakfast (leftover sticky toffee pudding, and Aaron’s coffee with lots of half-and-half) and packed myself a good lunch of leftover soup that I took the time to grate a little extra cheese on top of, for better nuking later. And when I got here, my boss wasn’t here yet to see that I was late. See how this all happens? I may have no willpower at all, but I’m the best-fed freelancer in the land.