STRANGER THAN FICTION: PROCRASTINATION MAKES FOR HARROWING TRIP TO AIRPORT

We've all got them.

They're the friends we expect to arrive an hour after an event begins. The ones who run in applying lipstick or pulling on a suit coat. The ones who have 50 ways to trick themselves into being on time ... all of them unsuccessful.

The procrastination gene is recessive. Take my family. My grandmother is extremely prompt, my mother is chronically late, I'm fairly prompt. If I'm late, like for work on Monday mornings, I mean to be.

My mom actually was an hour late for her second wedding -- probably for the first one, too, but I wasn't there.

She got dressed for her second wedding at my grandparents' one-bathroom home.

"Your Uncle Steve got into the shower!" she says. "I had to wait for him to get done!"

It seemed like a logical explanation at the time. Now that I'm married, I realize that a woman on her wedding day would involve herself in gunplay before she would let someone into the bathroom ahead of her. The more likely alternative: My uncle noticed that she was involving herself in everything from telephone conversations to gardening and finally got into the shower.

In the meantime, the wedding guests probably entertained themselves by starting a pool on when their friend would come through the door. My stepfather says he prepared speeches to give to the audience when it became clear the bride wasn't coming.

When I lived at home, Mom had a variety of ways to make herself early. My personal favorite: setting the clocks 15 minutes fast.

Of course, there's a distinct problem with that method. If you set a clock ahead, you KNOW it's ahead. It never worked.

"Mom! Look at the clock!" we'd say. "We're going to be late for church!"

"Awww, that clock's fast," she'd say.

So we'd be 30 minutes late.

To this day, I don't comprehend her total lack of understanding about time. She thinks she can reach any destination, even Mexico, in 10 minutes. She thinks it only takes five minutes to complete any task. When my stepfather is rushing out to the car to make a dinner reservation, she'll say, "Just let me do these dishes. I HATE coming home to a dirty house."

Sure, I've seen some minor-league procrastinators over the years, but nobody like Mom until last weekend.

My friend Brenda said she was staying up all night to get ready for her two-week trip to Seattle. All The Other Half and I had to do was pick her up at 6:30 a.m. Saturday, drive her three hours to the New Orleans International Airport, and then let her off at the baggage check-in for her 11 a.m. flight.

At 6:30 a.m., Brenda, wearing shorts and a tank top, was sitting on the floor of her home sorting CDs. Her suitcase contained a Pensacola phone book, two magazines and a pair of socks.

She sprang into action when she saw the panicked looks on our faces. We made it out of the house by 7:30 a.m. and broke the sound barrier getting to New Orleans by 10:30 a.m.

"I don't know if you'll make it!" I said, pulling her luggage out of the trunk.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked. "My flight isn't until 11:30!"

Go figure. A procrastinator lying to ME about the time her flight leaves so I'll hurry her along. That's definitely a new twist.

I fear that the procrastination gene might show up in any offspring I may bear. Mr. Half's mom often takes her time with things, too, if you get my drift.

We're going to have to nip any problems in the bud.

If the kid's late, I'm inducing labor.

~Heidi Nieland is a former Southeast Missourian staff member who lives in Pensacola, Fla.