You’re forgiven if you think island time is all “toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand,” as Zac Brown sings it. Toss in some Jimmy Buffett “changes in latitudes, changes in attitudes” and a pinch of Kenny Chesney, Mac McAnally and Bob Marley and you can turn the bleakest Midwestern winter into the foot-tapping, no-problem-man island time vibe of a tropical paradise.

You can be a frozen Coconut Castaway and chime in with Howard Livingston on the chorus of “Livin’ on Key West Time.”

I know. I did it for almost half a century. Stuck in the northern mainland tundra, I’d pop in those ear buds, crank up the steel bands and trop rockers and plod through snowbanks on my way to work. Made me happy. Buffett promised me I could “go back to the island.”

Eventually I did and now, almost two decades later, I know what everyone who lives on a tropical island knows: Island time’s real and it’s not remotely like the song lyrics. So what the heck IS island time? Let’s start with what it isn’t.

Island time isn’t a week of palm trees, water, sun, sand and endless margaritas. That’s way fun, of course, but it’s a vacation. It’s not even four days and three nights of primitive, pack-in-pack-out camping at Fort Jefferson in the Dry Tortugas. Although having just returned from said same, it sorta counts since about all there is to do is plop your butt in the sand, count the bricks in the fort and look out to the lighthouse. (PS: I fell way short of its 16 million.)

Island time isn’t for the cops, fire fighters and EMTs facing life-and-death decisions. Best not show up for court on island time either; the judges aren’t amused. But it may be for your doctor who’s happy to chat a bit before getting down to business or your pool cleaners, landscapers and handy helpers. (I can’t bring myself to write handyman and/or handywoman.) I’m pretty sure bureaucratic paperwork and institutional processes all come with a red “Handle on island time” stamp.

Island time is a slowed-down culture born of steamy weather. It’s too hot and humid to move fast or wear the mainland uniforms of collared shirts and jackets. It’s the isolation from the mainland and a willingness to let inconsequential things (like being on time or meeting a project deadline) pass without panic. It’s stopping in the middle of the street or grocery aisle to chat up friends and ignoring the rolling eyes or honking horns of the inconvenienced.

Island time, Rock Fever and Keys Disease: What’s the cure?

Island time forgoes the mainland obsession for staying on task in favor of knowing important things get done — eventually — and almost always when they actually need to get done, though seldom a moment before. A project like turning the Navy’s dumping ground into the Truman Waterfront Park takes 20 years on island time. Yeah, the mainland could have done it in, say, 10, but what the heck, we got ‘er done.

If just reading that paragraph makes your skin itch and your brain explode, you’d best start scouring real estate listings back on the mainland. If you’re blowing a gasket because your contractor didn’t show up at the appointed time, the new refrigerator still hasn’t been installed (and it took two months to get it delivered) or the project your bonus is tied to ain’t getting much love, Key West is going to send you spiraling into full-blown Rock Fever.

There’s only one cure for Rock Fever. Get out. Go back to temperate or tundra climes and put some trop rock in your ears.

Newcomers to the island don’t get that. They bring with them the mainland clocks, the haste, the three-ring project binders with short timelines and accountability, the gut-deep anxiety of needing to check things off the to-do list and the absolute horror of hearing a committee member or employee promise to complete a task today and wondering two weeks later why it hasn’t been done.

Oh, and you have to learn the difference between island time and Keys Disease. Folks with Keys Disease have sunk so deeply beneath island time they actually think they’re excused from ever finishing a job, that work start time is a suggestion and a chore (like installing your refrigerator or cutting the coconuts) is easily ignored. As with Rock Fever, there’s only one cure for Keys Disease: Fire the sucker and hope the next hire is better. Since there’s no blood test for Keys Disease, your new employee or contractor is, well, a crapshoot.

There are two kinds of newcomers to the island. Those who love it, warts and all, who work three jobs to afford to live here and who relish our important-but-not-urgent island time. And those who once they realize they can’t turn island time into mainland time, plot every day to get back to where clocks matter and people do what they’re told to do on time most of the time.

Island time moves a bit faster these days, what with air conditioning and a universe attuned to instant gratification. But like the bumper sticker says, “Slow down. This ain’t the mainland.”