Wait for it, folks. It happens again this weekend.
No, I am not talking about the arrival of spring. Not talking about that annual occasion when the lawn mowers are coaxed into turning over and the patio chairs are dusted off.
I’m talking about the time change.
It’s happening the way it usually happens: in the wee hours of Sunday morning when most of us are sleeping. Two becomes three or three becomes four or something to that effect.
We’ll all wake up, a little drearier than usual. We’ll pad around the house in a daze, wondering whether we should eat breakfast at 10 or lunch at three. For that matter, we’ll wonder what three even means that day. Is it really two or perhaps even four, and why are we so darned sleepy?
Sure, I’m going to like the fact there’ll still be some light after dinner. But man, I don’t much care for that loss of an hour, that 60 minutes of dream time.
The fall-back thing, I like. I would even say I love it.
Talk about a gift. Heck, I always come up with a hundred things I want to use with that hour. A nap’s at the top of the list.
But whoever came up with the bright idea to snatch an hour away from me should be, well, forced to stay awake for the better part of a week.
That, after all, is how long it usually takes me to adjust.
A week from today — heck, a week from Saturday! — I’ll still be yawning uncontrollably. I’ll still be walking around with bags under my eyes in a complete and utter fog.
“Should we eat dinner now?” I will ask the husband late Thursday afternoon.
“I don’t know,” he’ll say. “What time is it?”
“I have no idea,” I will reply.
Mr. Daylight Saving Time — and I’m sure it’s a guy — will take perverse pleasure in this. The thought that we might all be nodding off at our desks in the middle of the day? That will fill him with nothing but glee.
Mr. DST, annoying as he is, may be trying to convince us that we’re saving some daylight, but any old run-of-the-mill clock watcher knows that’s not really true. There won’t be any more daylight on March 12th than there will be on the 11th. It’s just moved around a bit.
Why we can’t just leave things as they are is beyond me. I want three to be three and four to be four and five to be — well, you get the idea.
Nope, I don’t much care for springing forward — or springing anywhere, for that matter, not while I’m under the covers.
I say this to the DST guy, whoever he happens to be: Change your own clock if you want to. But don’t mess with my REM.
