The expiration of daylight saving time this weekend is a semi-annual reminder of the humorous chaos I’ve experienced over the years working and raising a family in Chicago in the Central time zone and spending weekends and vacations — and now retirement — on Eastern time in southwest Michigan.
It’s an arbitrary and preternaturally vexing dividing line between closely adjacent states — Illinois on Central and Michigan on Eastern — so I’m bracing for another installment of clock shock that would make even Albert Einstein question the relativity of time zones.
It’s only a 90-minute drive between the different time zone states, but you lose an hour going to Michigan from Illinois and gain it back when you return, which sounds fair until you realize you’re perpetually early, late or completely confused.
For example, I can leave Michigan at 10 a.m. Eastern, cross the Indiana border at 9:45 Central and arrive at our downtown condo only half an hour after I left, clock time. Absurd or just weird?
Either way, there’s a cosmic “Twilight Zone” quality to it, like being gifted an extra hour of your life every time you drive from Michigan to Chicago — a little reward for surviving Interstate 94 — but grudgingly giving it back when you drive the other way in nightmarish Friday night traffic and cross the Michigan line at New Buffalo.
Unfair, like getting a parking ticket two minutes after the meter expires.
This temporal tug-of-war complicates everything from doctor’s appointments to dinner plans; friends driving over from Chicago say, “We’ll meet at 7,” and we have to ask, “Your 7 or ours?”
I’ve missed meetings, social events and even a few Michigan sunsets because I was operating on the wrong clock. Years ago I set up a Michigan dinner with Chicago friends for 6:30 but neglected to clarify which time zone, so my wife and I arrived an hour late and I ended up in the doghouse, but I can’t remember whether the doghouse was on Central or Eastern time.
The confusion intensifies on the eve of a time change. While most Americans are wrestling with the simple “spring ahead” or “fall back” ritual, those of us straddling the capricious time line are juggling two sets of instructions:
Do we set the Chicago clocks back at 2 a.m. Central and the Michigan ones at 2 a.m. Eastern? Do we change our watches before or after crossing the Skyway? I’m frequently tempted to just split the difference and live my life on “lake time,” an unofficial middle ground where happy hour starts whenever and daylight saving is more of a concept than a mandate.
This bizonal bifurcation also adds digital confusion to the mix. My iPhone can’t seem to decide which zone I’m in. One minute it’s Central, the next it’s Eastern — the phone wincing like a bruised Apple.
My car clock, of course, is always wrong, and every time I think I’ve fixed it daylight saving or standard time intercedes and ruins my brief illusion of competence.
Even television becomes a trap. The nightly Chicago news I used to frequent at 10 p.m. is 11 in Michigan — too late for sane geezers who crash early.
And sports? A Bears kickoff at noon Central means 1 p.m. Eastern, which doesn’t sound like much but it unfairly adds an extra hour of anxiety to already long-suffering fans.
That may be why Detroit aficionados are also cranky — having lived an hour ahead of common sense for decades.
Politicians, sadly, are no help. Proposals to establish one national time standard come and go like lake breezes, so we’re left with the proverbial “maybe next year” cliche while we curse the dark fall mornings and even darker winter afternoons.
But complaints aside, I’ve come to accept that time zone schizophrenia — like Chicago’s weather, sports or politics — is something we can talk about but not control.
So I’ve decided to embrace the chaos, and when the clocks change this weekend, I’ll raise a glass — probably an hour early or late — toasting the charming absurdity of living in a time warp between two worlds.
And if you happen to call me Sunday morning, don’t worry if I sound groggy. I’m not hungover — I’m just trying to remember which time zone I’m in.
Because in my life it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere — but no one, least of all me, knows exactly where that somewhere is.
Andy Shaw is a semi-retired Chicago journalist, good government watchdog and time traveler.
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