You've Screwed Me Again, DST

Daylight Savings Time and I have a love/hate relationship. She's prissy and flaky, always changing the time of sunrise and sunset; I'm grouchy and inflexible, always wanting my daylight consistent.

In theory, though, I love Daylight Savings. I can play basketball with my friends later, and studies generally agree that there is less crime and fewer traffic accidents. Plus, DST means that the perfume of spring has finally put a sleeper hold on the chills of winter. We're that pathetic couple who can never break up because the sex is too good.

But all practical reasons aside, DST is like any other woman: devious.

Back in April, when Spring Forward was still new to 2010, I was having a drink with a friend after work. We met up around 6 when, and thanks to DST, the sky was still "afternoon bright." Time passed quickly as we sat sipping our beverages and laughing. And because our conversation was so engrossing, I didn't mentally recalibrate my mind that "twilight" equaled 9 pm.

Losing track of time, and DST being a harpy of timekeeping, I arrived at home to my dog shamefully apologizing for dropping a bomb on my bed. And like any other woman, DST laughed at my having to wash poop off my white duvet.

DST is a beauty, but every end of March/beginning of April, it's like I'm on a business trip to the East Coast. I love the summer warmth of 8 o'clock at night, but I always feel slightly restless knowing that sunset is that much closer to midnight.