I was born knowing certain things—and knowing how to do certain things.
I was born knowing how to laugh—and while I may have learned some things along the way, I think I naturally knew how to make others laugh.
I had a certain understanding of the world once I emerged from the womb—to a certain extent, how to read peoples' minds, or at least grasp their true intentions, despite what they might say or do.
I had a natural knack for mimicry—which made me a fast learner, and a deft impersonator.
I naturally had a musical sense, which my Grammy praised during our piano lessons—but then I learned how to read music and play it on keyboard, horn, and voice.
But there are certain things I came out of the birth canal not knowing—and, having never been taught those things by my parents, I never learned them.
I don't think I ever really learned how to make friends. I've certainly made friends over the years—some very good ones, who are family to me—but I wonder if that was more a result of their efforts, rather than mine. Or was it luck, or circumstance that threw us together? Going to school with one another, working for the same company—we were thrown together by life.
Since then, we've just worked very hard at staying friends.
I definitely never learned how to date—and I still don't know how to do it. My parents were both so terrified of the outside world—my mother an agoraphobe, my father once a young man with his own ill intentions. They distrusted everybody—and therefore they kept me away from everybody. The thought of me going out with someone horrified them, so they instilled such fear in me that I didn't even tell them when I got invited to prom. (It's a good thing, too, because that date ended up falling through, which is why I never got to go.)
I went on one date in high school, which I can't believe my parents allowed but I was 17 and it was about time. He didn't kiss me goodnight. I still don't know if he was supposed to, or if he tried and I was too dense to notice, or if I was supposed to do something to make it happen.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to be single for the rest of my life, and I wonder if a big part of that comes from not having been allowed to learn how to date as a teenager.
The biggest failure of my childhood education, however—the one thing that plagues me on a daily basis—is what experts call a lack of time maturity, or a sense of time blindness. Maybe it's because I have undiagnosed ADHD (which I've suspected since college), but at the most basic level I think it's because I was never taught how to get myself to places on time. My mother didn't go anywhere, and she didn't let me and my sister go anywhere, so my sense of time management never fully developed.
I managed somehow to get myself around high school on time, mostly, unless I had a note from my favorite teacher who I'd find any excuse to hang out with after class. But I was chronically late getting back home from a bike ride because I didn't have a clear sense of how long it would take me to get from point A to point B, and I didn't want to waste my little bit of freedom by getting home early. For my entire adult life, I've been hustling to get to the next stop—and every time I make it on time, or I'm late but there are no repercussions, it just reinforces the behavior of waiting until the last minute to do something or get somewhere.
Even when I have literally missed the boat. More than once.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend and I had tickets to see Les Mis at the Pantages in Hollywood on a Sunday night. I had the bright idea to also squeeze in a matinee at Old Town Music Hall in El Segundo that afternoon. And try to get dinner in between the two.
I thought I had the schedule down to the very last second. The timing would be perfect. The traffic wouldn't be bad. The parking was nearby. There would be no crowd outside the theater, no line to get in.
And that was all true. Except it took my friend a little longer to drive than me. Except I paused a moment to take a photo of the marquee before entering the front doors. Except I caught my breath while hustling up the stairs.
All those "excepts" added up—and at 6:30 p.m. on the dot, the pit orchestra began to play its first note. The ushers closed the mezzanine doors and blocked them, not allowed to let us in until the first 14 minutes of the show had passed.
Now, I've never known the Pantages shows to start exactly on time—but I don't go that often, and I've never arrived that close to show start. But having gone to plays and musicals my entire adult life—and having acted in them, too—I'm used to theaters holding the curtain for a few minutes after the advertised start time to get everybody seated.
I was mad, mostly at myself. (Though fortunately I could hear quite well, and I've seen the show at least twice before—on the West End and on Broadway.) But then the next day, the Pantages posted a warning on social media that the performances start promptly at the advertised time—to me, an indication that others had been showing up late, too.
I commented, "This would've been a good post for the 6:30 Sunday show that dozens of people missed the first 14 minutes of"—and other commenters immediately jumped all over me.
One asked if I expected the show to wait for me. Or if I thought I had the right to crawl across other audience members to get to my seat while the show was already underway.
Of course not! My only point was that I thought these shows never start on time, and this one did, and there were lots of other people in the same (late) boat as me.
And then one person replied with a suggestion that punched me in the gut: "Try being on time."
The thing is, I did try! And I was on time! I was there exactly at 6:30! (OK so 06:30:01 instead of 06:30:00.)
But to others, being "on time" isn't showing up at the last possible second, right when something is about to start. It's being a half hour early, maybe an hour early.
In my mind, being early isn't being on time. It's wasting time.
I have so much to do and see. Why sit in my seat looking at my phone for an hour before a three-hour performance? Why wait at the airport gate for two hours before boarding? Why get to a restaurant before they even unlock the doors?
I don't get it.
I never learned any of this. And I'm not sure I ever will.
So I'm constantly stressed, and occasionally I miss a little bit of something. But I'd rather be late than not do something at all.
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