I saw a Facebook post that read, “Hello darkness, my old friend. Soon you’ll start at 5 PM.” How apropos for the time change that happened last weekend.

Every November, like clockwork—pun intended—we engage in that grand national ritual of confusion: turning back the clocks. You’d think we’d have this down by now. After all, it’s been happening since before the dawn of smartphones (which, by the way, are the only ones that seem to handle it gracefully).

But no. Every year, I still spend Sunday morning wandering around the house like a time traveler with amnesia. The microwave says one thing, the stove says another, and the car clock… well, I’m not even sure how to change that one, so it’s right only half of the year.

We should be thrilled because we “gain” an hour, they tell us. Gain an hour? Please. Although we tried to go to bed at a reasonable hour, Younger Son called us at midnight (or was it only 11 o’clock) because he couldn’t find his proof of car insurance card, and the Army was doing a random check before letting him drive through the gate onto the post. Hubby spent half an hour on the computer trying to find the information that Younger Son couldn’t manage to come up with. (Don’t ask me why he doesn’t keep his necessary vehicle paperwork in a logical location, like, say, the glove compartment.) And I’ll never forget the night I spent in the veterinary school ICU on the night of the time change. I gained an “extra hour” of work and no sleep. As you can tell, I’m still not over that injustice.

Let’s be real—there’s no lasting advantage in this whole extra hour business. It’s like finding a crumpled dollar in your jeans pocket—nice in theory, gone in five minutes. I always imagine I’ll use the gift of that extra hour productively—at least get an additional hour of sleep, so long as Younger Son doesn’t call. But more likely than not, I’ll wake up an hour early because my body is still on the old time.

Then there’s the sun. The one constant in our universe—except, apparently, when we start messing with it. One minute it’s high in the sky while I’m contemplating taking the dogs for a late-afternoon walk, and the next, it’s pitch black, and I’m wondering if I should just put on my pajamas and call it a day.

And those “cozy early evenings” everyone romanticizes? Please. It’s not cozy when you’re brushing your teeth and realize it’s 7:12 p.m. and you still have three hours to kill before bedtime. You can’t take a walk, work in the yard, or exercise outdoors. (Okay, I probably wouldn’t do the last one even if I did have sunlight.) But still, the minute darkness falls, so does my motivation to do anything productive, and it isn’t easy to convince my body it isn’t bedtime. There’s a fine line between “evening cozy” and “seasonal depression.”

Honestly, Daylight Saving Time is the universe’s way of reminding us we’re not in control of anything, not even our microwaves. Every clock in the house tells a different truth, and by the time I figure out which one is right, it’s time to spring forward again.

Still, I suppose it’s not all bad. For one glorious Sunday, people won’t show up late to church.