Hang on, allow me a moment to ascend my soapbox.

Okay, I am poised.

Why the hell is nobody on time anymore?

Last week, I scheduled three appointments at my home with people I was considering hiring. Every single one of these fly-by-nighters was at least 45 minutes late. No text which, unless you are composing it with your toes, takes approximately five seconds and of course, no phone call.

When they finally appeared, the excuses were predictably uncreative and entirely bull. I told each of them to keep driving.

If this is how you behave before I hire you, I can only imagine the archaeological expedition required to find you afterward.

You meet someone for coffee. They are late.

You arrive punctually for a doctor’s appointment, only to spend 30 minutes sitting half naked on white crinkly paper, pumping your legs back and forth in frustration.

Eventually, you begin wondering how many strangers have worn the ugly gown currently bunched halfway up your behind. This is not the kind of intimacy you expected from modern medicine.

Forget flying. You arrive at the airport hours early so you can wait several more hours while nursing something questionable at Chili’s. By boarding time, you have finished a margarita, memorized the terminal carpet and reconsidered several major life choices.

You leave home to drive on the 495, 405 or the 95 and are delayed indefinitely.

Zoom calls run late, giving you the pleasure of staring into the digital void while wondering whether the meeting exists or whether you have finally become invisible.

You get the picture.

Come on, people. You are free to disrespect your own time, squander your afternoon and live without any meaningful relationship to a clock. Just don’t include me in the arrangement.

And please retire the phrase, “I didn’t know what time it was.” Everyone owns a cellphone, an Apple Watch, a designer timepiece or a Casio.

You knew what time it was.

You just didn’t care about mine.