My roommate very nicely did shopping today so we didn't have to deal with it tomorrow. I am very grateful for this because I've been out of the house every day this week. I'm not really good at handling that.
When I thanked him, he jokingly told me it was because he knew "my favorite time of year" was happening Saturday. I sighed. Then, I started cursing the hell that is Daylight Saving's Time.
I hate losing my hour. I hate it so much. I want to keep my hour and keep my sleep. Yes, every Fall, they give my hour back to me, but we all know that never lasts long enough.
And yet, somehow, it's different this year. Even though I grumbled about the whole idea of waking up earlier, I sensed an acceptance of it. Perhaps even . . . a graceful acceptance. No, more than that, anticipation, expectation, want. Actually, I am looking forward to DST.
Maybe it's because I got my glasses tinted with just a hint of grey. Maybe it's because winter was hard and bitter. Maybe it's because, emotionally, I've been torn in 20 different ways.
Whatever the case, I find myself craving the longer hours of sunshine. I want the light. In fact, I will go so far as to say I need the light.
I may never say this again in all of my life, but for this one year, yes, please, give me my Daylight Saving's Time. I will trade you my hour of sleep if it means I can let go of the bitter cold, the dark, dreary clouds, the emotional MEH that has settled over everyone and everything. Bring the sunshine to me. Let me have daylight at 9pm and flowers and birds and the smell of freshly cut lawn.
I need the renewal. I need the rebirth. And above all of this, I need the light.
. . . of course, I'm writing this now. Let's see how grateful I am Sunday morning when it should be 8am and the world is trying to convince me it's seven.
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