I‘ve been told I have a problem.

Those of you who know me are no doubt aware of my condition. If we went on a date, I probably showed up at your front door a few minutes late. You received a bouquet of flowers and an ounce of boyish charm to make up for it, but we missed the previews as a result.

When we agreed to meet at that one party, I know I said I’d be there by 11 p.m., but hey, better late than never, right? And I know I said first round was mine, but I did show up before last call, and that’s gotta count for something.

Those closest to me have coined my condition “Tony Time” — a reliable ability to arrive to any social gathering, except for class, which I am somehow able to circumvent, LATE. You’re an understanding audience though, free of the rage and contempt that fills my friends, and I’ve come to you today to say that “Tony Time” is NOT as bad as they’d like you to believe. Honest!

I think it started sometime around high school, but my parents would probably cackle and tell you otherwise. So, during my freshman year at Rolling Meadows High School, I played trombone in the high school band. I had a good time doing it too, except for the fact that I was drafted into the marching band as a result.

Now that, that was a torture I could’ve done without. I hated every blasphemous late night spent on the football field, being barked at by my fascist band director to jump through his hoops while playing “The Star Spangled Banner.” Wow, no pent-up hostility there, huh?

Anyway, it was then that I asked myself, “What the hell am I doing here? I don’t even enjoy this.”

And thus was the legend born.

The epiphany I came to at that moment was both simple and profound: Do what makes you happy. We’ve only got one go at this crazy thing called life, why waste it being miserable? I couldn’t justify spending what was supposed to be the happiest, most carefree days of my life playing the part of the diligent, concerned student in a platoon of overachievers, so I gave it up and began marching to the beat of a different drummer, namely me.

Consider this: From the moment we graduate college, and even before then for some of you, we’ll be guaranteed slaves to The Schedule. Our time is not our own, and apparently we’ve been too conditioned to care otherwise. C’mon, we’ve got the rest of our natural employed lives to be in a given place at a given time. If there’s any time to be living for you, it is now.

Some of you might dismiss what I say as heresy, and consider this as nothing more than an excuse for me to piss off appointments, but I promise there is a moral to my story. That moment in the band was the cornerstone that led to a foundation of “procrastination”. I use that word loosely though because what you call procrastination, I call a lust for life.

I know the day soon will come when I will be forced to expose teenagers to the glories of Shakespeare each and every morning at 8 a.m., but until that day comes, what’s the harm in doing what makes me happy? If I get caught up watching another DVD, or spend a little too much time talking to my friend, will you really be that mad?

I know that if I say I’m going to meet someone I sure as hell need to be there; that’s just a matter of respect and courtesy and I won’t deny the importance of keeping your word in life.

But, when you’re stuck in that cubicle from nine to five staring aimlessly into the computer screen, when going to bed at 10:30 p.m. is considered “staying up,” and when Life puts twice as much pressure on as you think you’ve already got, will you be able to look back on this time and say that you used it well?

I hope so.