A few weeks ago, someone came by and asked me to sign for a notice from the electric company. I scribbled my signature, then stared, puzzled, at the space marked “date”.

The man watched me for a while, raising an eyebrow as I struggled, before he finally offered, “June 21.”

“June?” That was the second time someone had told me it was June and I hadn’t quite believed them. Was it really only June? I felt like so much had happened already. Wasn’t June two months ago?

I hastily wrote “June 21”, and then was stumped again. I was in the middle of writing the year when I realized I was about to write “2010”. Somehow I knew it wasn’t right, but didn’t know what to correct it to.

The man frowned. He must have thought that there was something seriously wrong with me. (He would have been right.) Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for people to forget the date, but the year???

Another second ticked by with the pen wavering over the space where I was about to write “1”. Then the man spoke again.

“2015.”

Damn, not even close.

You know, I live quite blissfully not knowing the date or year. To be reminded of time’s passing is just rude. And who delivers notices on a Sunday anyway??? Don’t they know that the staff is off?

I still think it should be September.