Late. Running late. Feeling like the White Rabbit, watching my watch, running late for a very important date.

At some point, almost every day, I’m late for something. There are days when I lose track of time and am rushing out of the office at the time I’m supposed to be arriving for an appointment.

Yet, the ones who seem to bear the brunt of my tardiness are my family, my wife and sons. Late for supper. Working late. Late night at a show. Gonna be a little bit later than I thought …

On a morning a few years ago, one of my sons had a play at school. He didn’t mention that parents could attend this school play until the night before. He has a bit of the late gene in him as well. Comes by it naturally, don’t you know.

A phone call, just writing one more sentence, etc., led to me getting into the shower later than anticipated that morning. By the time, I stepped out of the shower, it was almost time for my son’s play to start.

Either the shower was too hot, or I was in too big of a hurry, or whatever, I couldn’t stop sweating. The bath towel didn’t so much dry me off as it seemed to pull more sweat out of me. The more I tried drying off, the sweatier I became.

Maybe I was having hot flashes, what do I know?

What I did know was time had ticked away and I was nowhere near dry. So, I pulled on my clothes over my sopping wet self.

A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Hot flashes or not.

Luckily, the house is close to the school. Still, it was a long enough drive to worry that my sweaty condition might soak through my khaki pants. I didn’t want to look like I’d sat in something wet, or worse …

Though from a quick look in the rearview mirror, it looked like I had dipped my head in a swimming pool.

At school, I ran to the door, signed my name in the office. The office workers were kind enough to look away as I dripped on the floor.

Then I began the long trek from the office to the cafeteria.

Wet or not, disgruntled or not, I was a man on a mission. I walked with purpose. Walk is not even the proper word. Stride. Strode? I strode to see my son’s play.

My stride was so purposeful that Darth Vader’s theme song played in my head as I traveled the long hallway. Bum-Bum-Bum-bum-bum-Bum … I strode past long lines of kindergarten students filing into the cafeteria to see the play. Bum-Bum-Bum-bum-bum-Bum …

Water sprayed from me. My wet socks squished in my boots. My shirt was mapped with continents of sweat amidst a sea of dampening fabric. My pants stuck to my legs. But I had my stride …

Until coming to the door where the kindergarten students fell out of line and sprayed across the floor like grains from a burst bag of rice.

Ever try to have a purposeful stride while soaking wet and not trying to step on small children?

Not actually being Darth Vader, or willing to step on children, my stride turned into some variation of the hokey-pokey as I tried moving forward while not crushing kindergartners in my path.

The Darth Vader theme turned into a carnival calliope.

My wife waved at me. Lord bless her for still claiming my grouchy, soaked, bedraggled self. As many of you may have gathered from reading this and other columns, she endures a great deal.

I made my way to her. The play was running late. Though I’ve slid through the door at about a minute past the scheduled curtain time, the show didn’t start for another five minutes or so. I stood in a gathering pool of my own sweat, collecting my breath, finally starting to cool off and calm down.

The show started. The youngsters did a fine job. My son remembered his lines and sung well with his classmates. Wet or not, I smiled. This was a good place to be.

Being there for my son’s play, it was worth every crowded moment, every drop of sweat. Even the hurried walk that led to the gasping breath of Darth Vader.

Dean Poling is The Valdosta Daily Times assistant managing editor.