I’ve been discombobulated all week: Groggy, no energy and severe headaches. My eyes feel like they are wearing little hoods that resemble something an executioner would wear to work, and the only thing I can focus on is how many hours and/or minutes until bed time.
It’s so bad that I’ve taken to drinking coffee, which by the way, is an excellent “non-medicinal” way of removing a steel band that is squeezing your cranium. The headache subsides, but the caffeine has me feeling like that jumpy prehistoric squirrel in the Ice Age movies, which will explain to my neighbours why I’ve taken to running around the park at all hours as if being chased by a T-Rex coming off a 10-day fast.
By the time I slide into home base, my unathletic reality hits like an icy snow-covered sidewalk in November. I’m battered and the little hoods start to slip over my eyes. It’s 8:30 a.m. and I begin the countdown to bedtime. Would it be so terrible to go to bed in, say, twelve hours?
None of this behaviour is good for productivity. This has not been a productive week, unless counting the number of times an hour the vertical cursor flashes on the computer screen can be considered productive.
As I lolled in anguish last night, trying to read and to get excited about this week’s menu plan, I kept drifting off for the mini-naps that my father-in-law calls “resting his eyes.” Mini-naps are very disturbing. Your head dips forward on your neck causing strands of drool to leak from your mouth, then when the weight of your skull is about to snap your neck tendons, you jolt as if you‘ve been rear-ended by a semi. Your head snaps back, your eyes open, you blink rapidly, you have no idea where you are, and you become certain you have an early form of dementia. Disturbing. Very disturbing.
But last night, as I did this, then looked over at the devious clock that told me it was only 10:17, the reason for the discombobulating struck me: the ruddy time change. Even though we technically had an extra hour of sleep this week, my body hasn’t caught on. My body says, “Whoa, little lassie, something is wrong!”
This happens to me twice a year — spring and fall — and it happens regardless of which way the time is supposedly changing, but somehow, I’m slow to catch on to these flulike, non-flu symptoms.
Since I can’t find the button to re-set my biological clock, I’ve made a decision about spring. I’m not changing. I’m going to keep working on the current time. Others around me will learn to adapt. It will also give me a legitimate reason for showing up at the wrong time for meetings and airplanes.
© 2012 Sue Farrell Holler