Calendarin'

I met a new friend. This happens. We hang out, it’s fun. One day, after a few months, I have them over, we have a great time, and I ask when we can hang again. “I don’t know,” they say. “Let me get my planner.”

I’m sorry, what? Is your phone named “planner” now? And then they did the most unhinged chaos thing that I’ve seen all year, which was to get a paper book out and write stuff in it.

Apparently people still do this. I wouldn’t know. High-quality scheduling is my only love language. As a result, my own scheduling system is a complex set of interlocking calendars that are all instantly synced across four devices. I’ve never scheduled anything in a “planner”, whatever that is, in my adult life. I’ve also been late six times, rescheduled three times, and cancelled twice, ever, since May 18, 2006. Having a bombproof digital system works unless your grandmother dies or your partner ends up in the hospital. I run a consultancy and have a wildly rich life. I need my scheduling to work. I need it to work consistently and without error, all the time, forever. “Calendar” is a verb in this house.

I also own a planner, which has some dates printed in it. I plan nothing of any real structure in the planner. I journal for the day, and I have a limit of the page that is devoted to that day. I fill some of the page with my morning reflections, and then before bed I write down what I’m grateful for. That is what the planner is for.