Hey, Buddy, can you spare the time?
I had a superpower, but Daylight Savings Time took it away. I have, or had, the uncanny ability to know the time – within five minutes – without looking at a clock. Of course, the only way to verify that I am correct is by looking at a clock, but you get the idea.
In the middle of the night, I’d get up to go to the bathroom, and I knew whether it was 2:34 or 4:27. I’d be out on a lawn tossing a Frisbee, look up at the sun’s position, and say, “It’s 12:17,” and I’d be right. It was a gift, and it freaked my friends and family out. I got several accusations of cheating and one accusation of witchcraft. Thank goodness, I don’t live in 1700s Salem, Mass.
Most people were impressed with this particular skill. Then, we turned the clocks back.
My power was thrown into disarray. Now, I’m completely lost. At 6 p.m., I think it’s midnight. I’m discombobulated. I need to combobulate again (it’s weird that discombobulated is a word and combobulated is not).
Like Smilla Jaspersen had a sense of snow, in the book and movie, “Smilla’s Sense of Snow,” I had a sense of time. It wasn’t an ability I trained for. It was an innate, naturally born gift. Unfortunately, I temporarily lose my gift every Daylight Savings Time, whether we Fall Back or Spring Ahead. It takes a few days to recalibrate, and, in the meantime, I am severely out of whack.
I take a 15-minute nap in the afternoon and wake up thinking it’s a different day. I want my lunch at 9:30 a.m. At 5:30, I see the darkening skies and panic, shouting, “Where am I? What day is it?”
Side note: It doesn’t help that I still can’t fix the clock on my Mazda. The guys at Budd Baer promised me a favor, but my journalistic integrity forbids me from taking advantage. Alas, my clock will be wrong until Sunday, March 9, 2025.
But I digress, like I do. I don’t know how many days I’ll have to rely on a clock like a normal person.
I will be the first to admit that it wasn’t much of a superpower, but it was the only one I had. I can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound. I can barely jump over a puddle on Jefferson Avenue. I consider it a win when I can walk up a flight of stairs without sounding like Darth Vader. As far as accomplishing feats of strength, I don’t think opening a jar of pepperoncini counts.
I feel like Superman after someone threw green, glowing Kryptonite in his face or a mildly agitated Bruce Banner who isn’t angry enough to Hulk out.
I don’t know how many days I will be out of whack, but I hope my ability returns. Until then, I have to walk around looking for clocks or staring down at my iPhone – just like everyone else.