I Used to Have All the Time in the World

I love that song. We Have All the Time in the World. In my late 50s, about to turn 60 in a year and change, I don't think that's very true anymore.

Here's what I mean. You know how when you're at a drive-thru without knowing what you want, you're fine taking your time? You study the menu, consider options, ask questions. But the moment you know exactly what you want, suddenly you're impatient. Why is this line so slow? Why can't I just order already?

That's where I am now. I know what I want. And I'm tired of waiting.

A small bakery café in the Philippine mountains. My photos on the walls. Mornings serving pan de sal and espresso to people passing through—travelers, locals, anyone looking for a quiet corner. Afternoons with the camera, documenting whatever light I find.

That's the order I've been building toward. The Daly City bakery, the photography work—it's all been practice for this.

For years, I knew I wanted to go somewhere but didn't know where or how. Now I have the map. I know the destination. And I'm ready to leave.

That's the shift. I'm not wandering anymore. I'm waiting. And I'm not good at waiting.

I'm the guy with the bouncy leg in the waiting room. I plan, rework it, plan again. I watch YouTube videos about retiring in the Philippines. About building homes. About what life looks like at 60, 65, 70. I'm studying debt payoff strategies, client response times, timelines for selling businesses.

I used to be lackadaisical. I'd wait for things to happen when they happened. Now? I'm refreshing emails, checking account balances, calculating how much faster I could get there if X pays off or Y sells or Z finally responds.

When did this happen? What flipped the switch from lackadaisical to urgent?

I could point to my wife. She's 29 years younger, and watching her plan our future made me realize mine was running shorter than I wanted to admit.

I could point to my dad's illness. Watching his decline. Realizing how fast it happens—one day you're fine, the next you're asking what happened and where the time went.

I don't know the exact moment the shift happened. But I'm not waiting around to figure it out.

These days, I'm only interested in asking those questions when I'm finally sitting in that small café in the mountains. Back in the quiet shadows, watching travelers move in and out. Writers staring blankly at their screens, stuck on the next sentence.

I'll smile to myself and quietly say: Don't worry. It'll happen soon enough.