Too Much Saving Time
It’s Daylight Saving Time (without the “s” at the end) now.
Because I live up in them thar northern California hills I wasn’t so sure this blessed event had occurred as of yet due to the fact that it was still snowing here two weeks ago.
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 that 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 at the same time that I needed to be somewhere pronto. (Harrumph!)
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.
Articles I read in my continuing quest to provide my readers with helpful, bite-sized knowledge morsels they can disseminate at their next barbecue.