125 to 1

  It’s almost here.  The one hundred and twenty-fifth day.  The joyous reunion.  The closure so desperately needed.  The open window to the closed door.  The revival.  The restoration. 

That little clock in my car will no longer force me to do math on my way to everywhere, subtracting one hour for the obvious and 11 minutes for whatever magical phenomenon makes time speed up over the course of a year.  I won’t have to explain my little quirk to passengers, and they won’t have to laugh awkwardly “with me”.   The other clocks in my house get to happily race ahead like a little girl running with a pinwheel through a meadow.  Where before they beeped in annoyance, they now gleefully chirp as my fingers press the buttons, awakening them from their humdrum lull.  My happiness is confirmed in the magic of cell phones and computers that automatically update the time; they’re on my side, and I appreciate it dearly. 

I know that winter does not technically end until March the 20^th or something ridiculous like that.  This does not weigh heavily on any aspect of my reality.  Winter ends on the second Sunday of March and that’s final.  That other day is Spring Solstice Do-Over, also worthy of celebration, but in a more “just in case” sort of way.  Winter’s outta here, and the fake-snow frosted wreath on the door shall retire to the closet the evening prior.  This is ceremonial and cannot be ignored; trust me, it’s as serious as the seven-year-broken-mirror-bad-luck curse. 

I will no longer wear a winter coat, even in the midst of a sudden 20-degree drop in temperature due to some cold front from I-don’t-care-where.  I’ve worn these things for over a hundred days roughly, and that’s enough.  I’ve proven that nature can force me into a heavier existence, and now it’s time to lighten up. 

Can you imagine if you lived somewhere like Alaska or Norway, where their winters last waaaaaaay longer and they are deprived of daylight for most of their waking hours?  This thought makes me feel like I must be psychologically inadequate, as I would almost certainly cope using the same mechanisms as a toddler who throws tantrums in the middle of the grocery store line. 

It’s not just about daylight.  It’s a redemption of something that almost always feels otherwise intangible.  It’s about time.  Think about it; you get to mess with time.  This is astounding.  The mean people told us to set our clocks back in November, but now the nice people tell us, “oh, nevermind!” in March.  It’s like a punishment being lifted for good behavior, the “we all did our best, let’s just go back to the way things were”.  I’ve been fighting with time since I was born and it’s my ultimate conflict with the world.  Most of my inadequacies stem from some sort of time-management or scheduling challenge.  I’m fond of describing myself as “born two months early and late to just about everything ever since.”  My tardiness is not apathetic, I carry around guilt over it, but I often feel that my own personal planet revolves about ten minutes slower than everyone else’s, no matter the amount of coaxing.    

And soon, yet again, it’s as though nature cuts me some slack.  I can behave more naturally, more closely synchronized with my ideal cycle of energy.  I’m not tensely rushing around, only to catch the sunset while driving home from my second job, repressing the bitterness towards my hectic schedule on certain days.  

In a perfect world, we could save up daylight like we save money.  We could cash it in when we are really feeling deficient, maybe something similar to an ATM.  Some sort of device would discuss our options in layman’s terms:  “93 hours of daylight available.  How many hours would you like to withdraw?”  You’d bargain with yourself, similar to how you might at a restaurant while contemplating dessert, “I just need a little boost and that’s it until Tuesday”.  You’d cherish that withdrawn time, knowing that it had a limit controlled by something more powerful than your own personal schedule or wishes. 

So, I celebrate the chirping microwave clock, the friendly and now somewhat accurate digital numbers in my car, the seemingly longer and more delicate sunsets, my extra breathing space, lighter layers, and nature’s subtle nod towards my lifestyle on this gratifying Sunday of early March.   May we all save up enough daylight to get us through.