Father Time, You're Not the Boss of Me

The Fort Collins Museum has a Mask fundraiser annually and this year I attended the Masquerade Ball with my friend Anna.

There were many beautiful masks but this one gave me pause. The opportunity to confront Father Time about his tricks and schemes doesn’t present itself everyday, so I faced him head on.


Listen Father Time,

We need to have a little chat. 

You seriously need to relax, dude. 


You’re not the boss of me.


You gotta stop chasing me around reminding me that you’re limited. 

You gotta stop acting like this one is the only hour,

day, year in the time-space continuum to get shit done. 

You gotta knock it off with the 45 minute hours. 


You’re such a task master there is an entire industry 

devoted to the management of you.

And still another to help us understand that if 

we don’t tell you what to do

you will tell us what to do. 


Back in the day a summer lasted a million years

why does the space between Christmas and summer vacation last only five minutes now?

Why, when you have a kid, does the space between birth

and high school graduation last both two seconds and a million years? 

Why am I 17 one second and 40 the next?

Why you gotta be so relative?


America’s not fat because we like Cheetos. 

America is fat because of YOU!  

You start chasing me at 6 am

and I can’t get a breath between all of the mothering,

empire building,


kid sports running,

and time-sucking snigglies that gotta get done,

finally, falling into bed realizing that this body can’t maintain

without my yoga and kickboxing indulgences. 

Self-care is not an indulgence, mother-fucker.

You conspire with Mother Nature and your second-cousin gravity,

pushing us to grieve our youth.

Back off a little. 


You need to stop with your little lying tricks. 

You know the ones where you pretend that if I haven’t achieved an ambition yet

then my opportunity will vanish any second

or has already done its disappearing act.

That one keeps me scrunched up in knots,

and you know it.

It’s a big fat lie.

And you know it.


You deceive us into believing that money is your submissive wife,

when the truth is

she’s an independent woman

and you don’t even have her phone number. 


I don’t know who you think you are,

You’re not even real.

You’re an invented social convention 

which allows us to meet for coffee at the same time.

We’ve invented holidays 

solely to give us an excuse to celebrate a brief truce with you.


A nap feels like a sin. 

God knew you were gonna be trouble. 

That must be why one of the first things he did was to 

free us from your tyranny one day a week by 

granting us a Sabbath Day.  

And you’ve convinced most of us that even this minor respite from your scheming

is a luxury we shouldn’t allow ourselves. 


As  I well know Father Time, you are un-battle-able.

Try as I might I can’t ignore you.

I can’t fight you.

I can’t beat you.

When I try it only makes time constrict, 

right when I’m begging you to expand.

So, I surrender.

I’m turning 40.

Be kinder, Father Time, be kinder.


Tracee Sioux is an Authentic Power Coach, author of Love Distortion: Belle, Battered Codependent and Other Love Stories; and she blogs atTheGirlRevolution.com. Contact her at traceesioux@gmail.com

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