Today I’m pondering time. Don’t worry, this won’t get real deep. Like, I’m not pondering the theory of relativity and electromagnetism and the implications of a real world warp speed that could get us to Taco Bell and back in .4 seconds.

No, today I’m simply pondering the necessity of timepieces. Really, there has never been a time in our world where it’s been easier to keep time. Yet, we still obsess over the types of watches we buy or the clocks we put in our house.

But why? Keeping time is no longer a chore. We don’t have to hop on our mule and schlep down to the village center to observe the sundial. The time is shown everywhere. It’s in my car, on my coffee maker, even my refrigerator. Well, not my refrigerator, but I’ve seen it on those fancy new ones owned by well-to-do folk.

Seriously, 90% of the world carries a phone on their person. And if you don’t, then just ask someone for the time and there’s a nine in ten chance they’ll be able to help you, o poor soul still using mules and sundials.

I mean, time tellers are so ubiquitous now that it’s almost embarrassing to ask for the time. Oh, you want me to tell you the time? You couldn’t like, I dunno, walk 10 feet in any direction and find it?

We own multiple watches. I say we as in people of the world and not myself, who hasn’t owned a watch in 15 years. We have a watch for going out, a watch for work, and a watch for weedwhacking…spell check didn’t have a problem with weedwhacking, that was a little shocking…oh, but yeah, a watch for everything. I got a watch for everything too. It’s called an iPhone. And it’s accurate to like the astronomical millisecond. And I have no wrist bulge. #winning

Some people are still acquiring grandfather clocks. People are carefully hauling 200-pound timepieces on trucks and dropping them into their living rooms. They’re winding them up so they can be awaken from naps by bellowing chimes. Good golly why? You can get a two pound Echo and ask it to tell you the time, weather, or the prime minister of Bangladesh without twitching a damn muscle.

Now we have sophisticated, smart watches from brands like Apple, who figured that if people are going to strap something to their wrist, it better do more than just tell the time. And guess what. It doesn’t even show you the time when you look at it. You have to wake it with a button push. Apple rejects telling time as a primary function of their own watch.

That’s telling. Not time. Just telling.

It’s 6:50 on a hot summer night on Court 15. My friend and I have been pounding the pavement, exchanging ground strokes with fervor, and sweating our fannies off for the last 80 minutes. The game ends, prompting the changeover.

We go to our seats to refresh ourselves with water, and notice we are not alone. Some anxious-looking folks decked out in Yonex gear are hovering over our seats, bouncing to and fro, stretching their bodies.

We look at the time, and see it is now eight minutes ’til. We have the court booked until 7, but you wouldn’t know it. It seems that our $6 deposit for our court reservation is no longer good here, and we’ve assuredly worn out our welcome.

This is the rude state of affairs running rampant at the Millbrook Exchange Tennis Club. 

The last three times I’ve played there, my friend or I have paid the court reservation fee that entitles us to have the court for an hour and a half (5:30 to 7:00). And each time, we’ve been passive-aggressively shooed off by adults displaying the patience of caffeinated hyenas. It generally starts with the hovering at 10 ’til, and 5 ’til brings the blatant disregard for personal space. One time I was having some water and a woman got so close I nearly offered her a swig.

Now, because we’re courteous, we typically leave about two minutes ’til. Yet as soon as I lift my bag from the bench the other person places down theirs. Like they couldn’t wait another second to set down their stuff. Has it been that grueling to carry your tennis bag? Do you have C-4 in there that’s going to detonate if it’s not on a bench by 7 pm?

The rudest display came the last time we were finishing up, and my friend made a little joke to the hovering women about them not needing to break out the sunscreen spray just yet. It was an innocuous suggestion of social politeness for them to not spray until we left. Then I watched in wonder as my friend packed up while one of the ladies got out her bottle and began to spray. I watched my friend walk right through the cancerous cloud. Truly flummoxed, I could only conclude that if my friend had kindly asked the women not to take out their glocks and start firing, he would’ve gotten his face blown off.

Really though, I can do whatever I want with that court until 7:00, and perhaps I should to prove a point. Maybe I’ll politely ask for the time and then go into the middle of the court and snap selfies for five minutes. Or tell the bystanders I’ll be trying out Pokemon Go on Court 15 until my time is up, and ask if they’d like to join me. Perhaps my best idea is to give them the option of buying my remaining court time, since they’re so antsy to get going. If my calculations are correct, a 90-minute reservation for $6 equates to roughly six and a half cents a minute. So if someone is hovering at seven ’til, I could say something like, “Hey, you want the court now? Just give me 46 and a half cents and I’ll be out of your way.”