There was a time in my life when rewinding of the clocks by one hour in the fall represented an extra hour of sleep. Unfortunately my two little girls can’t tell time. I was up a little before 6 am this Sunday to put milk in a cup, a S’mores Pop Tart on a plate, and to turn on Little Einsteins.
It was still dark.
That’s fine with me. I’m usually an early riser and the whole getting an extra hour to get stuff done is fascinating to me. I spent my hour making spreadsheets for one of my MBA classes… exciting, I know.
I don’t like the sun going down earlier, but I love the one 25 hour day of the year. As I go through the house turning those clocks back, I feel like I have somehow cheated the space-time continuum. I feel so much more efficient and wonder why every day can’t be 25 hours long.
Aside from the fact that this would require the rotation of the earth to slow substantially, I’m not sure if it would be such a good thing. Although I got a lot done and felt great all day long, I woke myself with a loud snore in my chair at 9:15 that night.
Maybe more time isn’t the answer. It seems that my mind and body can only take a 24 hour day.
