It’s dark again.
Not in that delightful what’s-the-point-all-is-lost way that I sometimes have, but in a literal, pupil-widening way that is thrust upon us every year about this time.
This Daylight Savings Time, that is.
You didn’t think spring was going to just happen, did you? Oh, no. One must earn spring. One must yearn for it, watch for it, take up a collection and bribe it with promises of pedicures, of charcoal briquettes and jaunty little hats that say, “What? Protect you from frost bite? That’s someone else’s job!”
Plunged by Benjamin Franklin’s idea of a joke back into the darkness of the morning commute, I have time for these thoughts. There is little to distract one, after all, when nature thinks it’s 5:30.
It’s a hard life.
Once aboard the bus, jacketed in the drowsy goodwill of my early-morning compatriots, I can’t help but notice that there, at the front of the bus, scrolling on the marquee that shares time, date, and whether or not a stop has been requested, is today’s date: 10/25/34.
Holy moley. No wonder it’s dark out. I’ve stumbled into another dimension.
You know, I thought it would be dark in here; but I was also expecting humming and flashing lights, maybe the smell of cigarette smoke or the sudden inexplicable appearance of a cheese Danish.
I frown, as is my wont, in concentration. What an odd date. 1/2/03 I could understand. 1/11/11 would make me happy as well.
But it’s not about me being happy, not this time.
Nope. This time it's just me, in the dark, wondering if I’m terribly early or terribly late.