…or Daylight Saving Time, if you prefer. I was informed the latter was the proper term, but really let’s just cut to the chase. I hate it no matter what you call it.
You see, I’m not a morning person and getting up an extra hour early, even if it means I’m leaving less of a carbon footprint, makes me fussy. Fussy in the way that would inspire your parents to consider you a moment then ask in a cutesy little begging to be hurt voice “Does someone need a nap?” That kind of fussy. In fact, I went up to a co-worker today and demanded, “do I look like a train wreck?” “No.” “Are you sure, because I feel like a train wreck and I’m pretty sure you can see it in my face.” I’m pretty confident he’s a bad liar and not to be trusted. I’ll be keeping my paranoid-due-to-extreme-fatigue eye on him until my body sorts out this whole time adjustment thing.
Seriously, can someone just pick a time. I don’t care which one – draw straws, pick a number between 1 and 2, flip a coin (and tell me that coin traveled 50 years to ultimately determine my bed time and the bed times of millions, I don’t care – just flip it and someone call it).
For the record:
I’m also against Sundays and any day that is the last day of a vacation. I have the emotional IQ of a 14 year old. The internet told me. It tells me things… especially when I’m dangerously sleep deprived.
I need a nap.