Deadlines. They’re everywhere. At work, quite obviously. Day in, live in, drive in, living in sin, they all have deadlines attached to them. Your biological clock with its constant ticktocks and alarms that go clanging every once in an inconvenient while. Meaning deadlines for having babies, having sex, having your hair, having your health, having your wits and having any breath left in your body.
The day comes with a deadline. Whether you like it or not, 12 am is bound to happen and it’s the next day, you poor sucker in denial. And you’ve wasted another day of your life – a day you’ll never get back. A deadline missed, with its share of opportunities.
There are deadlines to live irresponsibly. You’re not going to be young forever. Deadlines to cherish the people you love. Sooner or later the magic of the relationship is going to run dry. Once your wife dies you can’t give her flowers any more. Flowers on her tombstone honestly does nothing. You can’t tuck your son in bed forever, he’s going to find someone else to do that sooner than later. And your husband, take your clothes off for him as often as you can; you’re not going to be hot forever. Once you have children, you can’t pursue your dreams like a maniac, unless you’re one of those rare individuals for whom guilt works just as well as adrenaline.
There are deadlines for having all the chocolate in the world. Once you get diabetes or worse, you die, you can’t eat too much chocolate. There are deadlines to do something with your life, because opportunity, like you remember, has a worse case of the diva syndrome than a hundred Aishwariya Rai Bachchans put together. There are deadlines for saying what you want about the Aishwariya Rai Bachchans of the world, ‘cos someday you’re going to be recognized and Aishwariya Rai Bachchan will slap a pretty figure (not the vital stats kind) on you in damages for libel and all that. And just because you’re famous doesn’t necessarily mean you are rich, and then you have a big problem at hand. In all probability the court’ll have its own deadline. And from what I have heard, you don’t want to mess with any court deadline unless you want to meet an unexpected shirt-on-your-back deadline!
So basically there are deadlines for everything under the sun. The sun has a deadline, if you can call a billion, zillion, trillion years a deadline. But I’m sure a fly would be like, “yeah right, YOU can panic over retiring at 30 (ask ME about my 30-day existence)” Happiness has a deadline. The happiness-deadlines are sort of like the voucher coupons. They’re only redeemable till a certain date. After that they sort of lapse and they’re worth nothing. Know how one minute you’re the happiest person on earth and you think ‘Oh, but look, I’m baking a cake, I’ll be happy half an hour later” and exactly 29 seconds later, you, if you are a woman, you feel PMS slowly cast a shadow on your day of sunshine. Or someone calls you and tells you that you were looking old yesterday and good-intentionally asks after your health. If you are a guy, you wouldn’t have been baking a cake in the first place and anyways your happiness depends on how much beer you have left in the fridge, so not relevant.
So to state the obvious, it’s up to us to make the most of these deadlines (duh!) it’s what we do between the time the countdown starts it counter-clockwise motion and deadline that matters. Our lives will not be counted by the number of deadlines. It’d be a sad sucker who defined his/her life by the number of would-have-beens, dead relations and lost chances, basically missed deadlines. Life will always be what we’ve done between those deadlines. So run baby, run!
(I've just turned 26, I guess I'm really paranoid about running out of time, and thus these posts)