I absolutely hate to be late for things that have a set starting time. To me it is a matter of my own comfort. To arrive breathless, sweaty and flustered, with an apology on my lips, and create a conspicuous disturbance while I settle myself and whatever I’m carrying, without time for a drink of water or a trip to the bathroom, has absolutely no advantages over arriving calm and collected, having my choice of where to sit, settling all my arrangements, and gathering my thoughts well before the [meeting, concert, appointment, flight boarding, whatever] begins.
To me this is an entirely separate matter from doing things, such as writing reports, wrapping presents, cleaning house for company, or any other activity that has to be performed by a certain time. I procrastinate those, usually. It’s the late-arrival thing that I can’t stand.
OCD runs in the family. My father was compulsively early, and I think for him it was a matter of (a) not calling attention to himself and (b) not giving offense. I judged this from the things he said about people who were perpetually late for church. They earned his merciless muttered disapproval and scorn.
Oddly, in those days, I was typically late, too, and his scoldings did not speed me up at all. He called me “cow’s tail”—always the last thing to arrive. Despite the ferocity of his convictions, he was utterly unable to motivate me to start earlier. That shift did not come upon me until I was an adult and realized that I hated the feeling I had when I was late more than I loved any of the joys of dilly-dallying. It makes my stomach hurt.
I married a man who would not get ready early to save his life. When we go somewhere together, I dash around getting ready, and he dilly-dallies. The more I hurry up, the slower he goes; he said once that he thought it would help me to slow down and relax. I think my rushing around will help him get moving. So I am ready with plenty of margin, I wait-wait-wait, and then we take off in a lather and arrive sweaty and breathless, with an apology on our lips and me a little mad. We have not solved this in 32 years and never will.