Someone came to my house, snuck in, and stole an hour of sleep from me. He reset all my clocks so that I think it’s really one time, but it feels like another. My alarm went off at 5:25 this morning, not at 6:25 – wait, no – it really is an hour later… I think. I’ll spend the next few days in a state of confusion, until the loss sets in and I start to feel normal again.
Daylight Savings Time is always a trial in our house. It happens over the weekend, so we don’t really notice it until the alarm rings on Monday morning. The hour got absorbed in the rush of things between a birthday party Saturday night and a concert the next day, and we all went to bed around when we usually do, but it was an hour later in the new time. Then, morning happened.
Bleary eyed adults and kids drifted in and out of the kitchen, lunches were grabbed, bags were gathered up, and the door closed, without many words at all. Even the cats looked nonplussed to have us in their domain much earlier than we usually appear.
The youngest and I made it to the bus stop with only moments to spare before the driver pulled up. She struggled to push the door open, climbed out, and trudged to the bus, last one on. I do not envy the teachers today, either. I came home and poured the first of what may be many cups of coffee, and just sat for a minute, getting my bearings.
I think I miss my hour. I feel off kilter. Right now I wish it would come back, but in the fall, when the thief returns the hour none the worse for the wear, I’ll be off balance yet again.
Life is awkward sometimes.