“Is that a new look?” snorted my co-worker last month.
“Is what a new look?” I asked.
“Is this like wearing your hat askew or your pants too low?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Your shirt. It’s on backward.”
I looked down. The tag was sticking straight up from inside my blouse. A peephole, intended to show a tiny and respectable amount of back skin, was showcasing my cleavage. Totally work-appropriate — if I worked as a stripper.
I hate the end of Daylight Saving Time.
It’s bad enough that the days grow shorter, but the pitch-dark mornings kill me. Where’s that darn cheerful Jimmy Dean sun mascot man when I need him? Clearly, he must not think those breakfast sausage biscuits are delicious enough to rise an hour early for.
Mornings never have been my friend. And the moon-filled mornings that make up the final month of daylight saving time feel like a cruel joke — one that, as an adult, I feel as if I shouldn’t have to endure. Making these dreaded predawn mornings far worse are those lucky adults, ahem, who manage to successfully skirt them. Ahem! (Insert coughing the word “husband” here.)
To avoid waking my husband as he slumbered through the darkened autumn mornings of daylight saving time, I got dressed for work by the light of my camping flashlight. It turned out — based on my backward apparel — triple-A batteries did not produce enough light to get a non-morning person successfully clothed and out the door.
I was getting really tired of the darkness. Tired of stubbing my toes every morning. Tired of tripping over toys I couldn’t see. Tired of the lamps stinging my eyes when I turned them on. Tired of needing three cups of coffee before I could function. And plain old tired. Because tired is what you feel when you have to wake up before the sun does!
Why, oh, why do we have to endure the last few weeks of daylight saving time? Can’t we move the time change up a little bit — back to how it was before 2007? Whom do I talk to about this?
Hey, farmers, I’ve been told that blaming you for the biannual time shifts is bogus, but because I have no other group to lament to, hear my plea:
I love ya. I really do. You have cows. That’s cool. I dig on some milk. Fruits and vegetables — I eat them. I always vote to support American farms with additional tax breaks. Farmstand Tropicana is my new favorite juice.
I took square dancing in elementary school. And I’ve gone to Farm Aid concerts. Sure, I wanted to see Dave Matthews Band and Willie Nelson, but the philanthropic element was totally part of my ticket price justification.
So why, dear farmer friends, must you hurt me so?
I need my morning cup o’ vitamin D! There aren’t many things in life I need to rely on, but trusting that the sun will be up to greet me when I wake is one of them.
You’re giving me trust issues, farmers. Like, therapy-level trust issues. Believe me; my alarm clock’s beeping before dawn had me on the brink of a mental breakdown. And simply providing the coffee beans and milk I would bathe in to function did not make us square!
I needed standard time. I craved standard time. My sanity was resting on it. And worse, my wardrobe choices were resting on it.
Alas, standard time brought no solace. After turning back my clock in early November, I learned something rather distressing: I had grown accustomed to my dreaded dark mornings! Now, rather than my alarm clock waking me before the sunrise, the sunrise wakes me before my alarm clock! I have gone from going mad from darkness to going mad from sleep deprivation. So much so that despite being able to see in my perfectly lit room, I came to work this morning wearing my shirt inside out.
Next time my co-worker smugly asks whether I’m sporting a new look — be it backward clothes, inside-out clothes or my bra outside my shirt — I’m just going to say, “Yes.” Clearly disheveled is my new statement piece. It doesn’t even matter if I got dressed in the dark.