I've been thinking a lot about time lately - how we spend it, save it, and often fool ourselves about both. This reflection started after realizing how many "time-saving" technologies fill my life, yet somehow I never seem to have enough hours in the day. What follows is my attempt to make sense of this paradox and perhaps find a way forward that feels more authentically human. Written during a moment of clarity between notifications, calendar alerts, and AI-powered reminders.
Here I am, perched on the threshold of 2025, thinking about Time - yes, capital T Time - and all those glossy promises we've been fed over the decades. Remember those TV commercials from the '60s and '70s? The ones with the impossibly cheerful housewives demonstrating their shiny new microwaves, as if these humming boxes would revolutionize our very existence? "Think of all the time you'll save!" they chirped, while zapping a potato into submission in three minutes flat. Maybe you're not a Boomer who watched those particular promises unfold in real-time – maybe you're a Millennial whose time-saving revelation came packaged in an iPhone, or a Gen X-er who was promised liberation through the magic of dial-up internet (insert modem screeching here). But here's the thing: no matter which generation's version of the future you were sold, we've all been promised some version of the same temporal utopia, where technology would finally free us from the tyranny of mundane tasks and gift us endless leisure time. Spoiler alert: still waiting on that one.
And it just kept coming, didn't it? Each decade bringing its own miraculous time-saving devices: dishwashers that would free us from pruney fingers forever, frozen dinners that would turn meal prep into a three-step waltz, early computers that would supposedly organize our lives into neat little digital boxes. By the '90s, we had email promising to make snail mail obsolete (though somehow I still get plenty of both, including credit card offers addressed to "Resident Time-Saver" or "Current Occupant Who Needs More Hours In Their Day").
Then the '2000s rolled in with mobile phones that would let us "communicate from anywhere!" (which mostly meant we could now take our work stress to previously stress-free zones like beaches and bathroom stalls). The 2010s gave us smartphones, social media, and cloud computing - because apparently what we really needed was the ability to check work emails while standing in line for our cloud-enabled, app-ordered, time-saving coffee.
And here we are now as we crest into 2025, surrounded by AI assistants eager to schedule our meetings and order our toilet paper, smart appliances that text us about the status of our laundry (as if we couldn't hear the buzz from the next room), and subscription services for everything from razor blades to meal kits - all promising to rescue those precious minutes from the clutches of mundane tasks.
Funny thing is, the more time I "save," the more I find myself drawn to these old-school activities, like actually reading books. Real ones! With pages and everything! Currently bouncing between Cory Doctorow's "Little Brother" (which, if you want to feel simultaneously enlightened and paranoid about technology's creep into our lives, is your ticket) and this fascinating number called "Tech Agnostic" by Greg Epstein (coming at me through my earbuds, because irony is alive and well). Two books that, despite their different approaches, keep circling back to the same unsettling question: what exactly are we trading away for all this supposed convenience?
Both books are doing this dance around the same unsettling reality: we've somehow wound up worshipping at the altar of Technology, complete with its own priests, prophets, and ceremonial sacrifices (usually involving our privacy and attention spans). Epstein's particularly good at pointing out how we've gotten so caught up in the "can we?" that we've forgotten to ask "should we?"
Then there's Yuval Noah Harari's "Nexus," where he explores something that might keep you up at night: those social media algorithms we've created aren't just passive tools anymore - they're more like invisible puppet masters with their own agendas. Not in a Terminator way, but in that subtle, "hey, let's keep them scrolling until their eyeballs fall out" kind of way. It's as if we've created digital entities that have figured out how to hack our human operating systems, using our own desire for connection against us.
Speaking of time and its peculiar ways of folding back on itself, I've been working on this project that feels important: taking my grandmother's voice - her stories about life in the '50s and '60s - and laying them over old Super 8 footage I've dragged into the digital age. It's like building a time machine for my kids, that runs on memory and love.
And because apparently I can't help myself, I'm also editing a podcast about strength training myths (and oh boy, are there many) for us seasoned citizens (that's a polite way of saying I'm north of 70). I managed to corner Dr. Traxler, this wonderfully straight-shooting remote coach, who's helping people like me defy the usual "take it easy" mythology of aging. He's got this way of explaining how we can keep our bodies from staging a full-scale rebellion as we age.
So here's my modest proposal: What if we took all this "saved" time and actually saved it? What if we turned off the notifications (yes, ALL of them), unsubscribed from the digital equivalent of junk mail, and just... existed? Not as optimal users or engagement metrics, but as messy, complicated humans?
Because that's what we are, when you strip away all the apps and algorithms - just humans, trying our best to make sense of this weird, beautiful world we've created. And maybe that's enough.
(Side note: Has anyone else noticed how "unsubscribe" has become a radical act of self-care? Just saying.)
Wishing you and your family a joyful holiday season and a prosperous New Year. Thank you for your support and collaboration this year. - tp
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