Out Of Step In Stanford Time

I know the exact moment I realized that I had lost touch with time. Or more specifically, that I had lost touch with leisure. It was when my bike was stolen. I'd left it unlocked in front of a dining hall while I grabbed dinner, and when I came back for it, it was gone.

Up until that point in the year — that is, a short month before summer — my feet probably hit bike pedals more often than the sidewalk. I'm not the greatest cyclist, and I'm particularly terrible at the many roundabouts on campus, but I can spin myself to class in 8 minutes if I had to.

Since the campus is 8,000 acres, and my schedule was planned down to 15-minute blocks, and I had a day with a 7:30am appointment in a neighboring city followed by three exams in the next 24 hours, I found myself having to very often. Then even when I did have ample time, I still had to, because I wanted to sleep in a little longer, and my legs deserved a break, and I just didn't want to walk, and my stomach hurt from too much ice cream, and anyway everyone else is biking.

So I had something of a crisis when those pedals were gone.

My kindergarten teacher wrote in my report card:

[Zara's] penmanship and art work are exceptional [...] She sets high standards for herself and always aims for perfection when drawing her illustrations or printing. Although this is admirable, it prevents her from completing her work. I would like her to focus on working more quickly and finishing tasks within the allotted time frame.

What she was referring to was my huge stack of half-finished Weekend Journals, where us kids doodle and caption an event from our latest weekend, every week. In my journal, the typical entry looked like a perfectly straight sideview of me at my piano with one section perfectly colored within the lines, surrounded by no color anywhere else and two hurriedly scribbled words.

It's a real problem. Since having me, I think my poor mother has consistently been one "five more minutes!" away from losing it. Unlike her, I'm severely time blind — I process time less like an ever-diminishing resource and more a continuous contextless soup of whatever experiences happened to feed it. Taking less or more than "enough" time, "using" time wisely, or (heaven forbid) "wasting" time never occurs to me naturally. I am simply in time, and time is in me. There is no separate entity, so there is nothing to measure, use, or waste.

It's also the reason I didn't know what to do with myself after I arrived at Stanford.

1,700 wide-eyed freshmen from all over the world hit the ground running. We have the next four years to realize our wildest dreams. Some are looking for freedom and independence. Others better futures for their family. Still others the next big idea and their co-founders.

What are we to do?

Where do we start? Who do we meet? How do we make it? When will we know that we have made it, whatever it is?

Or even worse, what if we let the sand slip through our fingers? What if we don't make the most out of this purported golden ticket? Will it expire? How is this thought infinitely more torturous than the last?

I run around shaking hands. Hello, hello! Yes, the grass is green, the sky is blue, and it's so hot out. Here's my elevator pitch. And my LinkedIn.

I felt like I was drinking time. It manifested physically.

I couldn't walk fast enough. If biking was email, then walking was messages by pigeon. How to optimize caveman ways? I found out that I walk 120 beats per minute, with each step falling 0.8 sidewalk concrete tiles apart, so that every five steps or so I would land on a crack.

I realized that coffee made my lips loose and mind jittery, but I was on a daily basis with the dining hall coffee machine, and a twice-daily basis with café quesadillas.

I couldn't sleep. Eyelids heavy, slumber a feather. Something was always tomorrow. The alarm is set for 6:00am. Have I overslept? I open my eyes — it's 5:37am. Again — it's 5:49. Then 5:53. Then 5:55. 5:56. At 5:57, I preemptively switch off the alarm and fall into the new day.

Turns out, my bike wasn't stolen. More specifically, it was on the closest bike rack directly in front of my usual dorm exit. I was watching my friend move his bike as he was packing up for the summer, and when I turned around, it was there.

The short month was over. My pedals were lightly laced with cobwebs, but I'd worn out a pair of shoes. I'm still not the greatest pedestrian, and I'm particularly terrible at not tripping over every uneven sidewalk crack on campus, but I can churn myself 10,000 steps a day if I had to.

Since the campus is 8,000 acres, and my schedule was planned down to 15-minute blocks, and I had another day with two classes, a 15-page essay due, and final exams looming overhead, I found myself having to very often. Then even when I did have ample time, I still had to, because I wanted to enjoy the morning a little slower, and my brain deserved a break, and I just didn't want to crash at another roundabout, and my stomach hurt from too much ice cream, and anyway, I wanted my feet in time with the sidewalk cracks.