(FYI:
It’s Daylight Saving Time, sans the “s”
at the end.)
Because
I live up in them thar northern California
One
week ago it was raining so hard that the windshield wipers for my car, which I
fondly call the Hydroplane, valiantly stuttered out their
end-of-season-buy-replacement-blades swan song.
Ergo,
I only JUST noticed that there was more light in my dayparts.
(Does
that sound naughty, or is it just me?)
No
matter. I’m now reveling in the bounty that is this
Congressionally-sanctioned time switching which provides me with the added
bonus of several “able to do it all” hours of light in my day.
The
concept of Daylight Saving Time (DST) goes so far back it was first mentioned
by that perpetually productive guy, Benjamin Franklin.
Implementation
didn’t occur until World War I and during World War II DST was actually dubbed
“War Time,” subsequently re-packaged as the “Daylight Saving Time Energy Act”
right around the time The Watergate Hotel became known for its great acoustics.
As
a practice, DST was not known to be consistently applied. At one point it
was discovered that “…on the 35-mile stretch of…Route 2 between Moundsville,
W.V., and Steubenville, Ohio, every bus driver and his passengers had to endure
seven time changes.” It took both The Uniform Time Act of
1966 and The Energy Policy Act of 2005 to create a sensible plan of uniformity.
And
you know what? It still seems to confuse us all. Be that as it may,
I adore Daylight Saving Time. I view it somewhat as a lovable, though
absent too frequently favorite uncle.
While
I delight in the fact that I never seem to have a “to do” list for long during
Daylight Saving Time there is one thing about it I don’t love; resetting every
clock and watch (last count 52) I own. Fifty-two. Fifty-two?
Is that insane or what?
It’s
not that I’m someone who is completely enamored of all things time zone.
I don’t even have those fancy-schmancy clocks that provide a helpful
chronometer profiling countries and states to which I’ve never traveled.
Nor
do I have a cuckoo clock, grandfather clock, or a clock that shows the phases
of the moon.
(In
the interest of full disclosure I must tell you that, once upon a time, I did
own a wristwatch which showed the phases of the moon. I loved that thing
too, not so much because I could tell folks what lunar phase we were in, but
rather because I think moon images are soothing.)
So,
my husband is a doer and extremely helpful.
(Hang
on for two minutes. I’ll connect all of this up, so set your
timer.)
The
other day I drove like it was Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride when I was running a
wee bit late for my exercise class. I was practically standing on my
accelerator, cursing the luck that would have me commuting on a day when a
convoy was evidently delivering ALL of the food for northern California
As
I screeched up to my class I turned to throw my keys to the valet, only there
wasn’t one. Dang it!
See,
this is what happens when you ingest a steady diet of smutty romance novels as
a teenager, believing plots that highlight poor girls marrying rich boys.
You start believing you will marry wealth leaving a trail of valets, chefs, and
trainers in your wake.
Consequently,
I had to get back into my car and park the blasted thing.
As
it was, I figured I was at least 15 minutes late to my class. At this
rate I would be practically starting with the cool down.
I
rushed in, out of breath, clutching my half-garbed body, my heart and my
checkbook.
The
owner of the studio smiled at me kindly as she always does as I shakily
scribbled my name onto the sign-in sheet. Phew! I made it.
As
I turned to launch myself into the class I espied an unfamiliar
instructor. Oh, what now?
My
bewildered look must have been hysterical. Let’s face it, when you spend
an inordinate amount of time in life plying the humor trade there’s always a
story behind your actions and I’m sure Mary figured this would be a doozy.
Mary’s
question, “You know you’re early…really early? Do you have some errands
you can do?” was met with my look that said it all. Whaaatttt???!!!
As
I glanced at the clock I noted I was not just a skosh early, but an entire hour
early. I mumbled something about going next door to the bakery which is
my version of an important errand.
As
the heady aroma of naughty, illicit, yummy baked goods hit my hypothalamus it
dawned on me what had happened.
My
husband had helpfully re-set my car clock for me, so it was now reflecting the
new time. Because I had blown out of my office paying more attention to
the fact that my work-out pants didn’t look so hot with my tank top, I had
neglected to note timepiece synchronization.
It
just goes to show you, time flies when someone else sets your clock.
###
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I read in my continuing quest to provide my readers with helpful, bite-sized
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