When we go back to Eastern Standard Time or, as I refer to it:
The Time When the Clocks in My House Go Back to Correct Time Instead of Being an Hour Fast Because I Couldn’t Be Bothered Setting Them All to DST in the First Place.
We’ll just leave out the factoid about every clock in the place being from eight to forty-seven minutes fast to begin with in order to give the illusion of “extra time” in the morning. Thanks for that call up of automatic reinforced behavior from childhood, Mom. I’m not “quirky” enough, after all.
Ah, the triumphant euphoria rivaled only by the interval when my husband’s “paycheck” shows up as funds available in the online checking account, and before all the damn bills are electronically batch filed.
In that brief but oh so beautiful seven or so hours, I am the richest lady this side of the Mason-Dixon Line!!
Which is only six miles away, granted. But still.