Daylight Savings

No, this isn’t a post about some funny thing that happened to me because of a surprise time change. This is about theft. Specifically, the theft of one hour of my day.

I inherited several things from my father, i.e. crooked teeth, a love for writing, the gradual disappearing of my bum (mom contributed to that too, so my poor buttskies don’t stand a chance), an increasing use of mustard, and….the loathing of decreased daylight. You know that myth, the one about Persephone and springtime and flowers and stuff? I don’t really either, but her name sounds like mine and I feel a kinship with her. The gist is that she was captured by Hades and held prisoner in the underworld, only to be let out once a year to frolic above ground. She was so happy to see the light of day—and mother earth was equally enamored of her—that wherever she went sprang flowers and new life. Thus, the coming of Spring every year. Do you see where I’m going with this? No, I don’t consider myself the breath of life that invigorates mankind and gives new hope to the world each year. My conclusion is simply this: Not having daylight is akin to being banished to hell.

Ever since moving to California I’ve wondered when my obsession with the beach, sunshine, and warmth would run itself out of my system. Naturally, I figured that being starved of all three of these at least 9 months out of every year would result in a short-lived, wild-eyed sun frenzy, kind of like when I got addicted to not sleeping as soon as I moved away from my parents’ house and into the co-ed dorms at USU. Since that only took about a semester to wear off (the addiction to not sleeping, not the actual not sleeping), I think I figured this beach thing would too. But…alas, I remain besotted with sun.

Besotted with sun. That’s a lovely phrase.

Anyway, my relationship with daylight is very high maintenance. Since my work day is really long, sometimes I don’t see the sun all day. By the time Wednesday or Thursday rolls around, I feel weird, and by Friday I’m all messed up. Sure, this could be attributed to many other factors, but when I think to myself “I feel weird, what’s going on?” The first thing my self responds with is “Why is it dark right now? I want to go outside.” And then I’m terribly distracted with images of me, basking in the sun, not necessarily doing anything but recharging. That’s exactly what sunlight feels like to me—I’m a giant dry battery, and the sun is my charger. The weekends are barely enough to recharge me for the week, and I find myself plotting dangerous things to get more hits during my work day (like extra long lunch breaks, complete with a blanket and a book and a questionable park and pants that can be rolled up to become shorts and light layers so I don’t get too hot and sunglasses, etc. etc. etc.).

You would think moving here, the "Golden Coast," would satiate me. That’s what I thought. But as it turns out, I still have to go to work and stuff. It nearly kills me if I have to run an errand on a Saturday that involves getting in my car and going somewhere indoors. Some of you have visited and have perhaps seen how my anxiety level increases the longer I’m out of the sun on the weekends. I’m a junkie. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. Every addict reaches a point where they have to either give up and let the beast take over, or give up and get help.

In short, I’m really sad that it’s November 10 and when I leave work at 5 I only catch about 20 minutes of sunlight. No more running at Manhattan Beach.  No more happiness.

Ok, that was overdramatic. How about this instead: I will try to keep my chin up while I tap into the backup charger, which is food (more on that in subsequent posts!). In the meantime, join me and my dad in gritting your teeth and hunkering down until the dawn of the best day of the year: December 21. It only gets better from there!