Like most employed Americans, I eagerly look forward to weekends. There are 52 of them every year, and not only do I savor each one individually, I treasure them all collectively as well. Most people I know feel the same way I do, unless they have a terrible attitude about life. It takes a lot of effort to consciously disenjoy any weekend day.
However, this coming Sunday is going to be 4.2% shorter than a standard day, and that presents a problem.
A big problem.
Two hours after midnight on March 8th, an annual event will throw a monkey wrench into the carefully-orchestrated lives of millions of decent people like me, solid citizens who don’t deserve to be unjustly inconvenienced. Every American living outside of Arizona, Hawaii, and the five offshore territories that don’t do Daylight Saving Time will be compelled to “spring forward” and set their clocks ahead at that hour, effectively vaporizing the previously-scheduled 60 minutes between 2 and 3 AM this Sunday morning.
That knowledge has me awash in anxiety, ready to explode from the excruciating, soul-crushing pressure of knowing there won’t be adequate time for me to accomplish what I need to that day.
I shouldn’t use this newspaper to go on personal rants, but where else can I register my justifiable displeasure about the looming 47-hour weekend? I’ve tried Primal Scream Therapy, but doing it in print hasn’t worked out.
My usual Sunday is perfectly choreographed. I start with some stretching exercises, then water the plants, have a drink myself, and go out for a breakfast date with a fellow early riser whose Sunday schedule is just as busy as mine is. After I come home I’ll change the sheets and towels, do a load of laundry, and log onto the New York Times website to do the Wordle puzzle. Then I’ll dry the clean laundry, contact my three children, and take a brisk nature walk, stopping to chat with any friendly persons I encounter along the way. After that I’ll grocery shop, sweep the floors, vacuum the rugs, make the week’s lunches, call a friend or family member long distance, and perhaps write a day- brightening letter or postcard to someone I haven’t seen in a while. It’s an ambitious schedule, but nothing I can’t handle. I’ve lived through hundreds of similar Sundays in the past, and generally complete everything on my to-do list without any undue stress.
But how am I supposed to accomplish everything that needs doing in just 23 hours?
Skipping the stretching is a possibility, but that would put me at risk of pulling a muscle, which would have major negative repercussions that could drag on for weeks. I could drink only half my usual amount of water, but that might render me dehydrated by mid-day. Putting off changing the sheets and towels would result in less than a full load of laundry, and running the washing machine when it isn’t full would be ecologically irresponsible. I could call just two of my three kids, but which one should I leave out? I suppose I could shorten my nature walk and/or ignore everyone I see on the trail, but who wants to be known as an aloof, grouchy old snob who thinks he’s better than everyone else hiking through the woods on a Sunday?
Mature adults shouldn’t panic over something like this, but I’ll admit I’m a wreck. I’m going to have to re-design my entire day, and have no idea where to begin.
The only thing that’s certain: I’m going to have to reschedule this Sunday’s 2:30 AM breakfast date.
Andy YoungReturn to main page
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