Some much too chipper anchorperson on TV cried HOORAY! for the time change that occurred about six hours ago.
Hooray for what?
I have an extra hour to think and write and think and write and think.
I have an extra hour to see which books of mine are not selling and why.
I have an extra hour to check on literary submissions and read an extra hour of publisher rejections.
I have an extra hour to not delete the over 10k emails that are in my personal email inbox.
I have an extra hour to worry about mundane things, to fret about life, to get angry about campaign polls, to be concerned about retitement and to fear death.
I’ve been given an extra sixty minutes today that props me out of bed much too early, resequencing my coffee routine and all others affected by my first actions of the morn.
What is the point?
While I like the not feeling glum although I’m getting up way too early malaise that will linger until about Thursday, I hate the fact that night comes upon us much quicker.
(My mother is already dreading five pm today looking upon nightfall as a visit from the grim reaper)
And, while I should be sleepier an hour earlier tonight, that is not how my body works having lost its need for sleep in 1972. Yvonne, on the other hand, will be snoring at seven tonight and I will spend the entire evening by myself.
Sunday night Must See TV will turn into Talk To Yourself TV because like the dark night that comes much too soon, Yvonne will look like a corpse on the couch next to me. She hasn’t caught up on the end of DST since she was seven.
This DST adjustment thing is a very lonely endeavor and one that I don’t enjoy every year.
I don’t use the extra hour for anything productive other than to distribute my disproportionate distaste into the contents of this one post.
I don’t like to begin my morning this way.
It sets the tone for my day.
It sets the tone for my week.
It sets the tone for my month.
Plain and simple, my year is ruined.
Hooray for what, indeed?
Give me back my hour and lets call it even.