Fall back, they said.
You get another hour of sleep Sunday, they said.
Uh huh. Tell that to my cats. Joey & Chandler don’t understand the unceremonious, utterly depressing end of daylight saving time. Or much of anything else except the siren song that is the opening of the flip top on their Fancy Feast can. That, they understand.
It’s light outside. It matters not that it’s the ungodly hour of 6:45 a.m. so they are awake and howling at the foot of my bed. Free cats to good home. OK, make that so-so home.
Let me join the chorus of all who want daylight saving time to be permanent starting next year. A bill to that effect is languishing in Congress (“where good ideas go to die”) mostly because there’s pushback from health experts who say it messes up our melatonin production which can cause all manner of mayhem: increased risk of heart attacks, falling asleep in class or behind the wheel, forgetting to record “The Bachelor”… tragic stuff like that.
Some object because DST means children wait for the school bus in the dark. That’s terrible, I agree, but did you miss the part where my sleep is being interrupted? How selfish can y’all be?
Because I wear a sleep mask (TMI?) it’s always dark until I tell it not to be but this, THIS abomination of a time change means the cats’ clocks are still on DST and this is NOT good. On the first day of standard time, I shoved my “Starry Night” mask up my forehead, surveyed them with not so much tenderness as homicidal rage and…got up, fed them, and started my day at the ridiculous hour of 7:30.
Yes, yes, I realize many of you get up at 5 a.m. every day and similar foolishness so you can “center yourself for the day” with yoga or a daily devotional or meditation. Weirdos. How many times have I heard someone I formerly liked say: “I enjoy the peacefulness of pre-dawn, the way you can drink your coffee and hear the birds begin their chirping. It’s beautiful.”
No, it’s not. It’s nighttime. Go back to bed. Unless you have these HORRIBLE cats batting at your sleep mask right now like it’s a lizard that has crawled onto your face in the night.
I hear you: “Some of us have to go to work!” OK, first of all, you’re being a little huffy and dramatic but that’s pretty much my default, too, so all good. But the point is, I don’t have to go to work. I did that already and now I don’t so this seems to be more of a YOU problem.
But the very WORST thing about the spirit-crushing end of daylight saving time (besides the shaming of your non-smart appliances which must be manually reset like it’s flippin’1995) is the new schedule in the faux nighttime.
4:30 p.m.: Why is it dark outside? Must be later than I thought. I’m going to have a glass of wine and cook supper.
5:30 p.m.: OK, dinner is ready. Huh. The outside lights have come on. Weird. The mail hasn’t come yet.
6:00 p.m.: Duh Hubby asks about my day, and I remind him since he retired and has been here all day, he has pretty much watched it unfold. He looks hurt so I toss him an ice cream sandwich, seal trainer style, and he’s happy again.
6:30: Why is Lester Holt on? It must be close to midnight. What time is it? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???
7 p.m.: Bedtime. Because why not? It has been dark forever and I’m now essentially a day drinker who eats dinner at an hour favored by hospitals and nursing homes everywhere. Make the madness stop, y’all.