I loathe clocks. It’s a 30-year phobia that dates back to my petticoat-wearing, perpetually strung-out childhood dentist.
One afternoon, he pointed to his watch. “It’s time," he said. He cranked up a Swan Lake number, yanked out a molar.
Now, hourglasses give me hives, and avatars of timepieces have me speed-dialing my therapist.