Slow life. Fast life.

I live a slow life. Time doesn’t fly. I never entertain the question, “Where did the time go?” Each day, to me, is a day.

One of my sons, Jess, is knocking on the door of forty years old. So are some of my friend’s sons. And I hear them say things like, “Wow, it just seems like yesterday he was just a kid and we were playing catch in the backyard.”

I just smile and nod; I try to say what I’m thinking. Because it would be impolite and Debbie-downer to say it. Because I’m thinking the exact opposite. Time has not flown by as a parent. It does not feel like yesterday that we were playing catch. And to me, every day of Jess’s forty years has felt like, well, a day.

Does that mean parenting has been a slog for me? Or that I’ve hated the journey or lack the magical thinking that most people enjoy? I don’t think so. Parenting for me has been one of my greatest life pleasures. I enjoyed toddlerhood. I loved the golden years. I tolerated (barely) the teen years. I endured the twenties. And now I’m loving the mature years when they are actually human beings.

But I’ll be honest, it’s puzzling to me that time seems to fly for everyone except me. When I brought this up to Jess a few months ago, he thought I was unsentimental and forgetful and probably flirting with a little dementia. (Okay, I made up that last part, but that’s actually what I think he was thinking … haha.)

So, having thought about it since that discussion, this is the closest I can get. From my earliest years, I was a thinker and contemplator and a bit philosophical. Even as a young high schooler, I remember spending hours in the library reading books on philosophy and purpose and thought and relativity. I have examined my life from as early as I can remember; I’ve thought about it and measured it and planned it. Even now, I journal about a hundred times more than anyone I know, recording my thoughts, noodling ideas in my brain, playing out arguments on the screen, reliving moments in my mind, slowing down to smell the roses. And I love it. Those journaling minutes are some of my most enjoyable of the day.

Socrates said many years ago, “An unexamined life is not worth living.”

Well, I’ve examined the heck out of mine.

So, maybe that’s why time hasn’t flown for me. I’ve thought about each day as it comes and lived it and consumed it and given it my all. Days don’t bunch together for me. They don’t fly. They walk. Just like I walk. I savor them. I’m intentional with them. I don’t allow apps and the socials and news and narcissists and Chicken Littles to rob me of my steady pace.

To me, this feels like slow life. I live a slow life.

But there are a lot of fast-lifers out there. In fact, most everyone I know lives fast. The elasticity of time is stretched taut like a rubber band. Ten years ago feels like yesterday. They live in the zone, flowing with their surroundings, immersed in the now, living fluidly, moving unconsciously, constantly asking, “Why is it going by so fast?”

I envy that flow state. I covet that time-blurring presence. It’s just not me.

So, is one better than the other? Is fast life better than slow life?

No, I don’t think so. I think you’re wired for one or the other, or a blend, so don’t fight it, but lean into it. Which, by the way, is my advice about most things in life … lean into your nature. Just admit it, Ken—you’re a slow-lifer. And somehow, you’ve made peace with the plod.

The rest of you can get all dreamy-eyed like you do, cast your eyes up and to the left, speak in hushed tones about the past, and wonder where it all went. And people like me will look at you and shake our heads in fascination—internally, of course, lest we appear as unsentimental prigs—and marvel at your speedy, mindless, timeless passage through life.

Meanwhile, Jess, as he knocks on the door of forty, will glance over at me and shake his head in fascination—internally, of course, lest he appear as an unsupportive son—and marvel at the slowness with which I trudge through life, living each day as a day, resisting the sentimentality of the fast-lifers. “Poor dad,” I can hear him whisper, “I don’t think it’s all his fault. I mean, come on, he is knocking on his own door … the door of senility.”