Damien Galeone

It’s Sunday morning and I am suffering the previous evening’s beat down by the Becherovka Imp. I went to the village and met L. The beer flowed like wine and the Becherovka flowed like beer. And now, I am paying the price. My head is both swimming and pounding so much that it’s like being in a cyclone. I can’t see and hope that my blindness is temporary, but I would gladly give up the gift of sight for this hangover to disappear. My stomach is making its future game plan known by sending highly unsubtle hints that I will not explain any further.

I squint, blink, and peep enough to make out the time on the clock: 7:32 am.

I have a lot to do today. I am leaving on a trip tomorrow; I need to finalize a presentation, write two blog posts, and pack. So getting up and getting an early start is the most prudent decision.  However, my brain says nuts to this and I doze off again immediately. It’s as if my body is sending itself into torpor to avoid the day’s events. When I awake again, it’s 9:10 am and I feel slightly better. I can see, so that’s good.

I feel slightly guilty about sleeping in until after 9, as it’s not something I do much these days. This is a drastic change from my night owl youth and that I have become something of an early bird has caused my parents to reconsider their belief in a deity. But still, 9 am isn’t too bad.

It’s when I turn on my computer that I find out it’s actually 10:15 am. And then it dawns on me, the Time Thief has been here. I then begin imploring the heavens.

To be fair, there really shouldn’t be anything bad about spring daylight savings, especially if you compare it to the winter clock change. It signifies the start of sunnier and milder weather, longer days, and bikinis. We are also given ample warning about its approach. And even if not, there are enough memes and people griping about it on Facebook to warn one of the imminent doom that is daylight savings. And yet, losing one precious hour of a Sunday, that day which needs no help moving any damn faster, is like being robbed.

I do not deal well with this theft of my time. I gripe, groan, and change all the clocks while uttering little curses and oaths. I need to get a lot of things done and paradoxically I choose instead to sit on my ass and think about how I have been robbed of time.

I used to work at a bar with a cook that was twenty minutes late every day. No matter what, he was late. One day he had misread the schedule and accidentally came in thirty minutes early. The GM told him to clock in and get to work since we were slammed and he threw a tantrum like a Tasmanian devil. He was so livid that a mere mistake had led to being forced to work an extra thirty minutes. When the obvious point about his tardiness was made to him he grumbled and moaned. I am fairly certain he was fired that night.

I feel my mind begins examining the philosophical tendrils of this issue (obviously, I’ll do anything rather than act). Just like that cook, I waste so much time in day-to-day life. I sit in front of my computer scrolling through Facebook, watching YouTube videos, doing Sudoku puzzles. I gave a whole lot of time to the Becherovka Imp last night. So why does one hour, one time a year, which leads to longer days upset me so much?

I don’t know. But when this whole thing is over, and we get to wherever we go when it ends, I am going to find the dude in charge of this rodeo and cash in these stolen hours.

Hopefully it’s not the Becherovka Imp.