Ask Not for Whom the Alarms Rings

(This is an alarm clock that will run away from you when you try to hit the snooze button. I have one of those too. Her name is Mireya)

I’m not a big fan of this time change thing. I have absolutely no sympathy with the proponents for this crazy system. Nothing, not the hours of “extra” daylight, energy conservation equations, nor the theory that it impacts shopping patterns, none of this is enough to make me embrace “spring forward.”

The nerve of calling it “daylight savings.” I was saving mine just fine, thank you very much. I don’t need to “spring forward.”

Now “fall back,” that I absolutely love. Love, love, love. We can do that all year until we have gone back an entire day. (As long as we don't end up on February 9th. That was a shitty day.)

But “spring forward” is a horrible idea. And don’t give me that argument that you can’t have one without the other. This is America! We can buy 14 different types of toilet paper. Anything is possible.

My problem stems from my long-standing status as a night person, not a morning person. I did have the misfortune of marrying a morning person, but through sheer force of personality I have poisoned him with my cranky morning attitude.

I don’t know about most morning people, but the ones I know act as if the world would be better off if everyone was a morning person. I beg to differ. Frankly, I’ve long believed you can look at this “morning thing” one of two ways.

The early bird gets the worm.

The early worm gets eaten.

One guess where I stand on the issue.

I have to admit, though, that I’ve tried. For days at a time I have actually gotten up early with the idea that I’d get a lot more done. I’d exercise. I’d get lunches ready for the week. I’d learn Swahili so I could mutter to myself without the embarrassment of someone understanding me. It never lasts. By day three I’m operating with a dazed look suitable for a mug shot and begging for a triple espresso.

And I don’t even drink coffee.

As a result, I tend to think of this first three weeks of the dreaded spring time change as a Baatan death march of early mornings without any of the benefits of an hour’s earlier rise. Half the time I’m getting my cell phone out of the fridge and trying to get the dogs to get their socks on.

So if you catch me and my fellow night folk being a little extra cranky, remember, you’d be cranky too if your dog's socks didn’t match.