Discombobulated is a good word. I like it. It describes me quite well in the days following daylight savings time. I’m here, present and accounted for. I am conscious, but faking alertness. I could use a nap. 

I probably shouldn’t be trusted with any decision-making responsibilities or be expected to answer questions of any kind (including “what do you want for dinner?”) for about a week. Don’t count on me to complete a thought or articulate it in sentence form either. If you cannot translate my babble, just don’t engage. 

In the same regard, if you can’t speak your requirements of me in bullet points or numbered lists, talk to someone else. Your requests will only be met with a vacant stare. A really polite vacant stare. Excuse the drool.

Basically, I cannot be held accountable for anything I have done or will do from the time I went to sleep last Saturday night until a full week after the clocks were changed, or until I figure out how to change the clock on my car radio. Whichever comes first.  

Right now, even my alarm clock and I aren’t in sync. I have hit snooze so often I am surprised it hasn’t hit me back. I’ve been late all week and I have no guilt blaming that little digital device.

You know how flying insects act a little drunk when the temperatures change quickly and they didn’t get the memo that their time on Earth is up, so they fly haphazardly into windows and walls? That’s me this week. 

So far I have face-planted into several doors and misjudged the corners of walls with just enough enthusiasm to make me say bad words, but just shy of actually separating my shoulder. You may call this being clumsy. I call it a premeditated daylight savings time (DST) injury. There should be insurance for such things. Have you seen the stats on car accidents and heart attacks post DST? I’m not a conspiracy theorist, but come on. 

If you think I’m a mess, you should see my spouse the Carpenter trying to adjust his personal timeclock to this new schedule. Even the man who thinks everyone in the world should be awake, cheerful and fully productive by 6am every single day has found this time change unpleasant. It has unraveled his life rhythm. 

He’s awake at the oddest hours and not too happy about it. He too is discombobulated. It’s not pretty, folks. Also worth noting: nobody wants to hear that we’re finding this time change harder because we’re getting older. Apparently pointing out the obvious is not helpful. Confirmed. 

Time changes are cruel. Necessary, but cruel. I see there is a point to it all. Daylight savings time is just doing its job. Nature’s clock. Longer days. Yep. It’s fine. Totally get it. Let’s collectively give DST a golf clap. Well done. 

Okay, now everybody nap. Let’s have a collective snoozefest for an hour a day for the next seven days. Wherever you are at say 3pm, just stop whatever you’re doing, snuggle up in a blanket and drift off blissfully for a power nap.  At work. At play. Whatever. 

This too shall pass. Before long I’ll be chasing sunsets at dusk. I’ll be watching bumble bees buzz around the garden. 

There will be ice in my glass and not on my driveway. Worth it. 

WriteOut of Her Mind