There are three things that remind me of my father’s car: the Beach Boys, ChapStick, and a clock that is intentionally ten minutes fast. My father is one of those people who lives in his own time zone: Jeff Standard Time, sandwiched somewhere between Greenwich Mean and Mountain.
I used to tease my father for setting his clocks fast to try (and rarely succeed) at fooling himself into punctuality. Now I find myself doing the same thing. I know my alarm clock is set ten minutes fast, but there’s some glimmer of hope that in the fog between sleep and wakefulness, I’ll read the blaring red numbers, forget that I’m playing games with myself, jump out of bed, and get the proverbial early-bird worm.