Standard Time

12 Sep

 

Exhaustion.  That would be the best word to characterize what I was feeling during the first fall of my trek through the wilderness that is cancer.  I had become a morning person during my short career as a proofreader, but I was beginning to hit the snooze button on the alarm clock more and more often as the fall went on, eventually putting myself in danger of being late to work on a regular basis.

As a general rule, the day the clocks switch back to standard time is my least favorite day of the year.  I am not a fan of having the sun go down early – it’s depressing.  And in Geneva, the sun can go down as early as 4 pm in the winter.  But that particular year, though, I found myself looking forward to it —  it’s hard to convince your body to get out of bed when it’s dark at 7am.  And 7:30.  And 7:45.

And let’s face it — I could really have used the extra hour of sleep that night.  Never before in my life have I needed sleep the way I needed it then.  Not during all the “hell weeks” at the community theater, when we would rehearse late into the night and then get up bright and early in the morning to do homework and go to school.  Not when I pulled all-nighters during my freshman year at college.  Not even on the day when my roommate and I were so tired that the only thing it seemed reasonable to do was to translate VeggieTales’ “The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything” into French… backwards.  I was tired.

The dorm director came in during breakfast that morning and made a Formal Announcement about setting the clock back at midnight.  (As though we were unable to take responsibility for that ourselves.  I mean, after all, even if you do forget, nowadays computer and phone clocks reset themselves automatically.)  I wasn’t planning on being awake at midnight to do that, so I set my watch back early, and decided to take care of the rest of the clocks in the morning, whenever it was I happened to wake up.  I did not set an alarm.  And that felt good.

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