I wrote this great post for today. It was called The Five Stages of Daylight Saving Time, in which I laid out the zombie-saga that is me and my five young kids getting adjusted to the new time, complete with references to the humorous / surprising / macabre fallout that this vile event has caused this time around. After spending a high percentage of my free time on this project, an ominous feeling of familiarity descended upon me as I realized: I already wrote this for the Register last year.
You know what’s worse than Daylight Saving Time when you have five young kids? Daylight Saving Time when you’re traveling during the time change.
You know what’s worse than Daylight Saving Time when you’re traveling during the time change? When you’re traveling during the time change and half of your timekeeping devices auto-update for the new time, half don’t, you don’t know which is which, and you’re with someone who is in the same situation but is from a different time zone.
I cannot explain to you the madness that was Saturday night at 1:00 AM. Actually, I don’t know if it was 1:00 AM. It may have been midnight. Or 2:00. Or an undefined point in an timeless alternate universe that I had stumbled into because my hotel room door led to a wormhole in the space-time continuum.
You see, Hallie and I had been chatting with some friends in our hotel room after the Behold Conference. When everyone left late into the night, it was time to figure out what time I needed to get up in order to make my flight. The following conversation ensued:
Me: What time does your phone clock say?
Me: That must be new time, right?
Hallie: Wait. That can’t be right, because that’s what the hotel clock radio says too. There’s no way the clock radio would auto-update to new time, right?
Me: Okay. That has to be wrong. My clock says one-fifteen too, but it said twelve forty-five thirty minutes ago, so if it auto-updated it should say two-fifteen, right?
Hallie: My computer says it’s two-fifteen.
Me: But your computer is on Eastern time.
Hallie: Right. But it might have auto-updated for Daylight Saving Time.
Me: But we’re on Central time here. So if it auto-updated, then it should say three-fifteen.
Hallie: Do you think it knows I’m in a new time zone?
Me: Maybe. But does that mean it’s two-fifteen here or on Eastern time? And would that be old time or new time?
Hallie: What if it did update my time zone but didn’t update for Daylight Saving Time?
Me: [Clawing at my eyes and screaming as my brain melts within my skull.]
I’m telling you, it was as if we’d been flung into a dimension where time no longer existed. If there had been an analog clock on the wall, I’m sure it would have been spinning backwards to complete the tableau of utter madness. When I tried to call the front desk to get the right time and they didn’t answer, I resolved that I may be taking a cab from Peoria to Austin since I would never, ever be able to figure out what time it was again.
Now I’m back at home and it’s Spring Break, which is both a good thing and a bad thing. I had all these elaborate visions that we would homeschool through the vacation to get a leg up on the end of the semester; that I would use the extra time to tackle some exciting home improvement projects; that we’d take some fun and educational day trips, perhaps to the local children’s museum; that we’d get out of bed before, say, ten o’clock (in my defense: that’s new time!); that I would change out of my pajamas before noon (new time!); that I would do something other than shuffle around the house in a glassy-eyed daze, twitching and muttering about “old time” and “new time.”
All this is to say: If there are any typos in this post; if I seem irritable or uncharitable; if I am slow to respond to emails, tweets, or direct messages; if I start repinning stuff on Pinterest that I usually skip because, while it is utterly hilarious, it uses the f-word three times; if I appear to be anything other than a saintly, gracious, perfectly put-together woman, I want you to know:
I BLAME DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME.