Mexico switched its clocks in the middle of last night. Doesn’t happen above the border till later. Has there ever been such an annoying custom that covers so much of the world that continues due to sheer inertia?
Why won’t someone say, Enough already!? Or, as we say in español, ¡Ya, basta!
Here at the Hacienda, we try to soften the blow by moving the clock only 30 minutes on Sunday and then the other half hour mañana. It helps. One of the two switches, fall and spring, feels worse than the other, but I forget which. I think it’s the spring switch.
Reeling from the change of even 30 minutes, we sat down this morning at some vague hour for biscuits, honey and coffee. Then we sat on the scarlet sofa for 30 minutes more, which is our habit every day of the week, a plus to not having real jobs.
Breakfast-recovery time. With music.
Then I put on grubby sweatpants, grabbed yard tools and sat on the rock/concrete out there pulling weeds from around the base of two little palms we were gifted years back by friends of my child bride’s in her long-ago home of Los Reyes, Michoacán.
When you’re 76, getting down and — even more so — getting up from a rock/concrete surface can be a challenge, but it’s all part of the fun, I prefer telling myself. Yipee!
Meanwhile, the Kung Flu terror continues. I once more compared the number of people who have been infected and those who’ve died against the total population, and the results are always the same. You have a better chance of being struck by lightning or gored by a rampaging bull or kicked by a donkey in downtown Seattle.
It’s another cool, lovely day. We’ll be lunching this afternoon in a downtown hotel that serves some killer stuffed chiles. Wish you were here.