We as a species have decided that time means something. That no one in their twenties is responsible enough to plan for the future and no one in their thirties is lively enough to stay out past 10. Forty is when you stop caring what people think and sixty is when you’ve paid enough dues to be released from the indenture of society. And because we’ve been endowed with a heretofore unseen hair of foolishness, we assign our own personal time especial meaning. 

It’s Thursday and in 3 days, I will...