SPRING AHEAD? SERIOUSLY?

No matter how many fun, colorful clocks I see reminding me to "spring ahead" before I go to bed tonight, rest assured I will never be the least bit joyful about my initial return to Daylight Savings Time (DST).

What menopausal woman worth her weight in missing estrogen enjoys losing an hour of precious sleep? As if we aren't groggy enough already.

So, although I will comply and set my clocks ahead the requisite 60 minutes before retiring, I dare say I won't spring into it. I may meander, I may slog, I may even trudge ahead. But you won't catch me springing. Not at this point in my life.

Springing implies pleasure or giddiness.  I am feeling neither at the prospect of knowing that as I write at 10:04 p.m., it is really, for all intents and purposes, 11:04 p.m.

( I do love falling back an hour in the fall, however, celebrating and savoring every second of that additional hour even though that time change makes me groggy, too.)

It will take my mind and body a good two weeks to adjust to this chronological castigation, and at least that long to reset and synchronize my various time keeping devices. Except for my car clock, which I leave as is all year round because I cannot for the life of me figure out how to change it. And it's two minutes fast, to boot.  Some mornings, the mental arithmetic it takes to remember which DST cycle we are in, and what the actual time is, is exhausting.

Which leads me to my biggest complaint about DST:  Its main purpose may be to save energy, but Lord knows it always zaps mine.