I looked up “Daylight-saving time” and “Standard time” in Webster’s Dictionary and got very thorough definitions of both terms. I am now well-informed and would do quite well if I was on Jeopardy and the category “TIME CHANGES” came up, but I have one major question that still remains unanswered: Why am I so daggone tired now that we have switched back to standard time?

If it’s spring, you spring forward. If its fall, you fall back. I’ve got all that down pat and know exactly what I’m supposed to do. Before I went to bed Saturday, Nov. 5, we went through the ritual of turning our clocks back. Of course, as any older family member will inform you, you never turn the hands of a manual clock counter-clockwise or you will ruin the gears. Though I was tempted to disregard the warning, I took the extra time to turn back time by spinning the hands forward.

As for the digital clocks such as the one on the stove and the microwave, I wasted half a day trying to figure out how to turn them backwards. After much frustration, my wife took exactly nine seconds to complete the one-hour task. She came to my rescue just as I was considering slapping a piece of black electrical tape over the red flashing numbers as a buddy of mine did on his VCR years ago.

Okay, with everything set, we went to bed with the comforting thought that we were gaining an extra hour of sleep as all the newscasters reminded us. I awoke at 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning. I usually get up at 7:30 a.m. most Sunday mornings. Well, so much for gaining that extra hour of sleep.

We went to church, but during Reverend Ellen’s sermon on gluttony, my stomach began to growl since my body was thinking it was time for my 12:15 p.m. lunch break even though my watch read 11:15 a.m.

We left church and finally ate lunch around 1 p.m. which was actually 2 p.m. S.T. (Stomach Time). As the day went on, I tried to do a few odd jobs around the house, but all the while I fought the urge to stretch out on any flat surface and take a nap. Before I knew it, I was ready to go to bed. Of course it was only 5:30 p.m. and pitch black outside.

After a cup of strong coffee, I ate my supper and dug deep to muster up enough energy to drag myself to the sofa where I proceeded to doze and “rest my eyes” as my Nana Ward always called it. Once again, I was ready for bed. It was 7 p.m. I made a mental note to pick up some Geritol on my way home from work the next day. The same irrational male pride that prevents me from stopping to ask for directions while on vacation was preventing me from succumbing to sleep at 7 p.m. Even retirement homes don’t have lights-out until after 8 p.m. 

The clock in the foyer finally struck the 9 p.m. hour. Finally, I felt this was a reasonable bedtime for middle-aged folk like me. So I set my alarm and crawled into bed. The next thing I remember was being insensitively awakened by my rude clock radio blaring “Wasted Days and Wasted Nights” by Freddie Fender.

How odd. How strange. It usually isn’t this bright in here at 6 a.m. Oh no, I thought. All this abundance of sunlight must mean only one thing—I’m late. I leapt from bed and frantically ran toward a destination unknown to me at that very moment. I stopped in the kitchen, squinted at the clock on the microwave and saw that the red digits glowed 6:01 a.m.

And then the fog began to lift from my feeble mind. The house was flooded with more than usual early morning light because it was actually 7:01 a.m. I was in a sluggish existence the rest of the day and have remained there ever since.

Maybe I’m so tired because I’m still searching for that so-called extra hour of sleep I was supposed to gain. I’ve decided I am no longer impressed by this shallow promise. I’m tired of all the hype. Leave my time schedule alone. If I want to lose or gain an hour, I’ll get on a plane and fly across time zones. Otherwise, if the powers that be really want to impress me then let me turn my clock back 24 hours at 2 a.m. Sunday morning and give me a whole extra Saturday.

Now there’s a time change I can really use.