But then something unusual happened. I realized I was about to witness a temporal magic trick: the arrival of Daylight Saving Time.
I watched the clock like it was New Year’s Eve.
1:57.
1:58.
1:59.
And then—poof.
3:00 a.m.
No drumroll. No explanation. Just the quiet theft of an hour of my life.
It felt oddly philosophical. Midlife already makes you aware that time is accelerating. The decades don’t pass; they teleport. One moment you’re 35 explaining to people why you’re still figuring things out, and the next moment you’re Googling medical acronyms and contemplating spring cancer treatments.
Watching the clock jump ahead felt like a metaphor with a slightly dark sense of humor. Time doesn’t always move politely forward in neat little minutes. Sometimes it lunges. Sometimes it steals an hour. Sometimes it wakes you up with bad death dreams just to remind you that the whole enterprise is temporary.
But there was also something strangely comforting about the moment. Even when we lose an hour, the world keeps going. The night doesn’t collapse. The sky doesn’t panic. Time simply clears its throat and moves along.
Eventually, I realized the philosophical insights were not improving my sleep prospects.
So I did what any mature spiritual seeker would do.
I took my second Trazodone of the night…
…and, thankfully, time stopped mattering for a few hours.
-Chip