Being On Time Rarely Goes Unpunished

I am the first to be ready for an event. And I hate to be late, so you know what that means: I am the seat saver in the family. In other words, I’m punished for being punctual.

It’s so embarrassing to be the front line person in the battle for premium seats at every children’s concert, award ceremony and First Communion.

I sit there governing a block of seats like an usher waiting for the king and his royal court to arrive. Meanwhile, every indignant mom in the entire school passes by my arsenal and mumbles something under her breath about seat hogs or rude fathers.

That’s why the other day I told my mother I wasn’t saving seats anymore.

“If you want to see your granddaughter’s hygiene play, then you and the rest of the family need to arrive early.”

“But, you always save us seats,” she complained.

“Not anymore.”

“Did you know I gave you life without an epidural?” my mom retorted. “Can’t you at least do this for me, just this one time?”

“I don’t have a big enough coat to save a whole row.”

“I was in labor for 16 hours,” she continued. “You gave me hemorrhoids the size of Volkswagens, isn’t that worth a little consideration?”

Feeling guilty, I cracked. “All right, but this is the last time. Sooner or later, I’m going to get thrashed by an angry mob of room mothers.”

I told my wife she needed to help me save seats.

“I can’t,” she shouted. “I’ll be backstage. It’s my job to tell the dirty fingernails when to make their entrance.”

So, I arrived at the school 45 minutes early and grabbed half of the front row.

I sat at the aisle to block the entrance to the seats, and I put my shoe on the last chair I needed to save. That worked pretty well until the janitor grabbed my wing tip to see if it fit him. So, I took my sports coat off and dropped it at the other end. Then, I placed other items, like my belt, tie and vest, down the row so people would know they were reserved.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have something to cover every seat, therefore, other parents walking into the auditorium would stop, and shout, “Is that seat taken? The one over there between the Kleenex and the white cotton briefs?”

I should have done what another dad did. He laid Tic Tacs on every seat down the row, and then swatted little kids away with his playbill.

The thing is, people look cross when you tell them an entire row is taken, especially when it’s just you sitting there half-naked. And so, I felt compelled to provide an excuse, other than, “I’m sorry, the rest of my family are deadbeats.”

So, I lied and told people that my mom was handicapped. “She needs five to six strong family members to get her here,” I explained.

Then, I called my mom at home and told her that she needed to limp when she walked into the auditorium, “preferably with loud moaning sounds.”

She didn’t.

Now I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before hostile parents rub me out.