I didn’t realize it was another Daylight Savings weekend until 9:52, which was actually 10:52, yesterday morning. No one reminds me in advance anymore. I went to high school with a kid who came late to class because nobody in her family had known it was time to set the clocks forward. I’m like them now.
My wrist watch has been trying to find itself lately, pushing for more independence by the month. Long ago, I was in an elevator with someone who wore an identical one.
“Does yours ever stop and then randomly start back up again?” she asked.
“What? Never,” I said. “I swear by this thing.”
When I reached out to forward it from 9:52 to 10:52 yesterday, it hadn’t even bothered to hit 9:52 yet. Softly ticking away, as if it were still 9:14, it slowed time down for a while, after having treated itself to a little breather. I applaud that ploy - to a point. I don’t know how old a 7-year-old watch is in human years, but I’ve read The Alchemist and recognize the importance of heeding omens. This year, I’m upgrading to something Swiss.