There have been days, though I can’t remember specific ones, that I probably could have used an extra hour.
But Sunday wasn’t one of them.
Not that Sunday — a pleasing day off, after all, and sunny as a bonus — was a bad day, because it wasn’t. But Sunday, if I had to find fault, was a tad on the longish side. For this, of course, we can thank the annual, inevitable time change.
I know I’m not covering any new territory here, grousing about Daylight Saving Time (“spring forward”), or its flip-side (“fall back”). Why do we do it? I’ve never heard a compelling reason.
To some hearty souls — I know a couple — those forced changes in time, whether forward or back, make no difference. Either way, those adaptable folks rise and go about their business shining as if nothing unusual had occurred.
But I’m not one of those hearty souls, so I’ve got some grousing to do.
I’m more a creature of habit and my habits largely revolve around my internal clock, which regulates important stuff like when I wake up in the morning.
Because it’s internal, I can’t reset it with the touch of a switch. It takes a few days to reset itself. It’s a process. The process started Sunday morning.
Having gone to bed Saturday night mindful of the imminent time change but too tired to fiddle with clocks (on my nightstand, the oven, the microwave), it came as an unpleasant jolt looking at the digital display on my nightstand, knowing the green, glowing 6:28 on my clock was erroneous and rightly should have read 5:28.
I can drink coffee and waste time for hours on a weekend, so the early rising time — even compounded by that “extra hour” — shouldn’t be a big deal.
But I couldn’t fight off a sinking feeling in my gut, knowing what lay ahead. I’ve experienced this before (every year, in fact) and knew that what lay ahead in the hours that awaited.
Still, I spent the day productively, working outdoors for much of it, taking advantage of the lovely early November weather.
But my, how the day did drag.
After I’d been awake for about 12 hours, give or take, the clock revealed it was shortly past noon.
Another 12 or 13 hours later, it was a mere 6:30 p.m.
By 7:30 Sunday night, after a long day of chores and clock-watching, I was worn out, mainly more mental than physical, ready to plop myself in bed for the night, had it not been so early.
So I toughed it out another five or six hours until 9:38 p.m. (8:38 p.m., of course, pre-change time) until I decided enough was enough and it was time to bring closure to the neverending story that was Sunday.
Since I’ve had experience with this a couple of times before, I know how it turns out. I’ll feel out of sorts (“unstuck in time,” as Kurt Vonnegut aptly wrote in “Slaughterhouse Five,” though not actually referencing Daylight Saving) for a couple more days before I start to feel normal again and 9:38 actually means 9:38 and not an hour prior.
Normal is within reach, I know.
It just takes a little time.
