My alarm went off at the usual time. I had been lying awake for about 15 minutes prior to the catchy android tune that disturbed my rest. One arm went out from under the covers to silence the offending noise. I turned on the lamp and drew my arm back under the covers.

I am not one of those whose feet hit the floor the moment the clock goes off. I must think about getting up for a moment before it actually happens. I shift to my back and blink my eyes. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. I can see the ceiling fan twirling. If I blink fast enough, at just the right speed, I can visually slow the blades down so that I can see each individual blade.

It’s kind of like taking a video of something on the TV with your phone. The light waves don’t match, and you get this scrolling effect on the screen. It’s almost like you can see the individual frames rolling by.

I start feeling woozy and turn back on my side facing the lamp. I fold the covers back, heft myself up and sit on the side of the bed. My clock says it’s 6:10 when I finally stand upright to gather myself.

Gathering oneself at my age is important, especially after staring at the fan. I have to make sure that my sense of balance has caught up with my body. The cold air from the fan makes me think about the warmth of the covers. The first step towards the bathroom is a deliberate one.

My steps are slow and calculated. I feel for the door jam and reach for the light switch. A simple flick, and my world turns as bright as an operating room. I am squinting as duty calls; one eye open.

The bathroom floor is cool in the early morning. I have the vinyl-fake-wood flooring. It’s waterproof. Durable. Sweeps easily. It’s not as cold as the old ceramic tile that used to be in here. Plus, it’s a lot smoother on my bare feet.

I make it back to my spot in front of the mirror to survey the damage. Loose skin around the jaw line. A few wrinkles around the eyes. A skin tag above my cheek bone, just under my left eye. Hair that looks like it lost a fight with a racoon. And three or four days of whiskers that need attention.

I am a lazy shaver these days. There was a time when I put a razor to my face every day, but not anymore. But I do have a limit. I don’t have enough stubble to make a fashion statement with a beard. I tried years ago but the gaps made it look like I had the mange.

When I worked, I had customers to meet. Good business image and all that. I might skip a day, but never three or four like now. So, out with the foam and the razor to clean myself up.

The shower was hot and I’m feeling alive at last. It wasn’t until I got dressed and put my wristwatch back on that I actually gave my Timex a glance. I almost had a heart attack.

Either I lost track of time in the shower, or I passed through some kind of time warp in space, or my Timex had died about an hour ago. According to my watch my shave and shower took over an hour and twenty minutes. What the heck?

Then it hit me. The time had changed at 2am. My phone and my alarm knew it, but my Timex and I had forgotten about it.

I knew it was coming. It’s not like the time change hadn’t crossed my mind. Every fall season of my life since 1966 we’ve been setting our clocks back an hour. But I got caught off guard this time.

The panic ensued because I needed to leave the house at 8am. My watch said I had twenty minutes to finish getting dressed, gulp a cup of coffee, maybe eat something, load the truck and hit the road.

That is not the way I do things. I like a slow and easy morning. Long sips of coffee. Two cups. A little reading. I soak up the quiet of the morning before the day begins. And in that tiny moment I thought I had blown it. I wanted my hour back.

Which with a simple twist of the little button on the side of my Timex, I achieved.

This horrific episode got me to thinking about what I would do if I could really get time back. If I could just turn the dial backwards and start over, how different life might be. If I could say, “That didn’t go so well,” and then find a way to make life better. Or maybe even repeat the things that went well so that I could live them over again.

In my simpleton way of thinking, it seems like this would be almost a miraculous gift. One more hour to talk with my dad before he passed away. One more hour to rethink the conversation that turned into an argument so I could choose my words more carefully. One more hour to stand at a sunset, soaking up the best parts of my life.

One more hour.

I imagine that’s what we all want in one way or another. A repeat hour, if that were possible.

But the truth is, I didn’t get my hour back. I changed my watch. I reset the clock on the mantle. I reset the clock on the kitchen wall. But Father Time didn’t change. The only thing that changed was the position of the little hand on the face of each timepiece. Time itself remained the same.

There are not 25 hours in the day that time falls back, no more than there are 23 hours in the day that time springs forward. It’s a game we play that drives us all a little nuts for a day or two, but then we adjust. Time goes on. The sun comes up. The sun sets. And we have gained or lost nothing.

My best bet is to live right now. Choose wisely because I can’t get that moment back. Love completely because I never know when it might be gone. Take advantage of every opportunity because nothing like it may ever rise up to meet me again.

I have learned this through my own pain of seeing life as I knew it slip away. I have discovered its wonder in the gift of second chances that have swept me off my feet. Nothing is truer of time than knowing I can never get even a minute of it back.

I cannot undo the tragedy. I cannot repeat the splendor. I can only live. Now. This moment. At this time.

The Gift is that we have “now.” The challenge is to remember that every day.

I’m ready for tomorrow. Both my alarm and my Timex are set.

I just gotta remember not to stare at the fan too long before I get out of bed.