Ostomy Memories of Timing

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HenryM

ON A SIMPLE DRIVE ACROSS TOWN, I tend to show off my unique facility for catching red lights.  It is as if they see me coming.  “Here comes Henry, turn red, turn red.”  All life is about timing.  That can be either a good or a bad thing.  I might have kept driving that ’84 Honda Accord for a number of years longer if some bozo hadn’t rear ended me merging onto the freeway.  On the other hand, a guy who providentially altered the direction of my life back in the Sixties could easily have never met me had I not been standing at the pen counter when he came in to buy one.  Meeting people can be a mere accident of timing, as can the good luck involved in missing catastrophe.  How about the fellow who got held up in transit and missed his passage on the Titanic?  The difference between a strike out and a homer is a matter of timing, as is the difference between good sex and indifferent sex.  Talented comedians count on their timing, as a pause just before a punch line can make all the difference.  What are you supposed to do when the cooking directions on the package say to bake for “20 to 25 minutes”?  Timing is crucial, whether it’s a batch of cookies or a frozen pizza.  Then there’s the doctor who bends over a patient’s bed to check his pulse.  Looking up with an expression of concern (and words borrowed from Groucho Marx) he says:  “Either this patient is dead, or my watch has stopped.”  

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