Originally published in The Clifton Courier, December 6, 2017

There are some times when a minute seems to span over a different timeframe than 60 seconds.

Sometimes the unit of time that we call one minute can seem like an eternity. Sometimes it can fly by faster than a hummingbird’s heartbeat. Those 60 seconds aren’t standardised; they’re subjective.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, this sounds like the beginning of a really, really dramatic episode of Grey’s Anatomy (and that’s saying something, because that show once had an episode where a guy had an unexploded bazooka in him with Christina bloody Ricci as a guest star and it wasn’t event the season finale). It sounds like something about love or loss or maybe a poetic combination of both.

But I think we both know that’s not what this column is about.

In fact, this column isn’t about anything. It’s true. When I try to tell people what my column is about, I’m often stumped. Usually, it’s about things that cheese me off or something embarrassing I’ve done recently, and often a nice meaty blend of the two. It’s like a placenta smoothie – hard to swallow, flecked with graphic feminism (well, sometimes I do tone down the uterus talk because we are talking about a small town in Maranoa) and probably should never have existed in the first place.

So when there’s a column that is described as “uh…. I don’t really know… it’s not really about anything”, you shouldn’t expect anything too emotional from it. If you want to hear my emotional thoughts, you’re going to need to shout me several rounds and played Bob Seger’s Drift Away on the jukebox on Christmas Eve*.

* I clearly added this in as a ploy to snag a few free schooners at the pub after Christmas Eve Mass. It’s one of the top nights of the year to be out on the town in Clifton – you get pissed with your old schoolmates’ parents and really top up your hug quota. 

So no, this column isn’t going to reach emotional depths – especially considering the most emotional I’ve been lately was when my friend and I re-enacted various scenes from Titanic on a recreation of the ship’s grand staircase.*

* I can’t recommend this enough. If you’re in Sydney before February 4 and have a spare two hours, have a few beers then get down to the Titanic exhibition. They have the actual Heart of the Ocean (yes, that’s a proper noun) used in the movie and this outdoor deck scene brilliantly embellished with strategic fans for a realistic effect. Make sure you have plenty of memory free on your phone because sweet baby cheeses are you going to take some photos. 

No, this thought about the perception of the passing of time isn’t based on a tender moment, but from when I was waiting in line for the toilet at a brunch spot on Sunday morning.

I was in the line long enough for the girl in front of me to think something along the lines of “nah, bugger this” and walk away.

And if I wasn’t so desperate, I would have done the same.

It seemed as if an age had passed while I was standing there, waiting for that “engaged” sign to switch to “vacant”. I wondered what could possibly be taking someone so long – and of course, the thought did cross my mind that if someone was taking so long in there, perhaps going right in after them was against my best interests.* But then, risking soiling myself in public was also against my best interests. So I waited.

* This is obviously a poo joke, which I’m fairly certain my father would have picked up on. I was going to build on this joke by suggesting that he could have been snorting cocaine but I ran out of room. I like to think that he wasn’t doing lines because it was like 11.50am and who the heck needs coke to get through brunch, but then it was in Sydney, after all. 

And to be honest, I probably wasn’t waiting more than five minutes.

But it seemed so much longer than that. It was then that this idea about the variable passing of time hit me: time moves slowly when your bladder is full.

It made me think about some of the other situations you’re in when one minute could not possibly be 60 seconds. We’ve all been there. We’ve all questioned whether the second hand on the clock was mocking us.

And sure, time is a damn illusion. It’s a mutually agreed upon delusion humanity follows to make things easier for ourselves. And that makes sense, because just imagine how much more frustrating catching the train would be if we all had different ways of measuring time.

But while we can always measure time by the clock, the ticker in our head can drastically  alter our perception of it. And obviously there are scenarios when you want time to stay still and occasions when you want hours to pass in the blink of an eye – like when you wake up a few minutes before your alarm goes off or you’re getting a pap smear.

I guess it comes down to not only the situation, but your attitude to it.

And to prove my point, I’ll use examples that are interchangeable.

Here are some examples of occasions when a minute flies by:

When you’re in a hot car: and you know you’re going to have to get out and brave the Toowoomba drizzle at the next stop.

During exercise: and you have a one-minute break between one set of burpees and another set of something equally as tortuous.

During an ad break: when you’re running to the toilet and you don’t want to miss a thing.

And here’s when a minute drags on:

When you’re in a hot car: usually when your mum gets stuck chatting with someone on the street

During exercise: and the workout regime calls for you to do one minute of anything more strenuous than a stretch.

During an ad break: when you’re waiting to see if the drongo in the hotted-up Commodore blew over the limit.

* I feel like I should have had a concluding sentence to round this out, but honestly, I was just too damn tired. I’m really dragging my half-decaying carcass to the finish line of this year. I’m surprised I’m even managing to wear pants when I leave the house.