Okay so I did it. It was something I didn’t want to do but I did it. It was against my better judgement, but I did it. I still have no idea why I did it, but I did it. I regret that I did it but now I did it and I can’t take it back… I changed the damn clocks. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on kvetching about changing the clocks for the next five days. That would be very cruel and extremely unusual punishment.
What we are going to be discussing here is what the “changing of the clocks” represents (besides my yearly ritual of trying desperately for a month to reclaim that hour of sleep that I lost and never seem to be able to find. It should straighten me back out in the fall when we change the clocks back …it just never seems to work out that way for me. I need my hour now! Whom do I talk to? What petition do I sign? What do I boycott? Where do I march?)
What it all means, besides that I’m disproportionately exhausted over this one measly hour, is that Spring is approaching.
How do you feel about that? Does it mean, new season, new beginning to you? Or does it conjure up thoughts of “April showers bring May baby showers?”
Every season, has different meanings for different people and definitely different meanings for infertile people. So this week, in honor of Spring, I’m going to sprinkle some seeds in the dirt with a lot a lot a lot of fertilizer, water it down…and see what grows… pretty much what I always do.
And for those of you who are places where you don’t get to experience the thrill of daylight savings time:
So for people in places where you don’t change the clocks let me explain why we do it here. Okay, I can’t. I think it has something to do with longer work days but I feel more like it’s somebody on a big power trip just screwing with all of us: “I’m going to get millions of people to change their clocks… I’ll bet nobody calls me ‘short’ anymore!”
The entire hoopla goes like this: In the Spring we move the clocks forward one hour. In the Fall, we put them back…Whoo ha. We need that hour back to rest up from all of the excitement.
“The changing of the clocks” ritual is not quite as exciting as the “The changing of the guards” at Buckingham palace… At my house, “The changing of the clocks” ceremony entails my husband sauntering into the kitchen in his underwear, in the dark, with his eyes closed to change the clock on the microwave that we both forgot about the night before–while it’s a twice yearly event–I don’t imagine it would be much of a tourist attraction. We don’t usually bother closing the curtains in the kitchen and even the neighbors don’t seem to care.
Listen I gotta go. If I’m not going to get my hour sleep, I’m at least going to find somebody to whine to about it for an hour… maybe two.
I’ll talk with ya again tomorrow.