Between Time Zones

As an homage to Elvis Costello, the title of this post was almost called Man Out of Time but I decided against it only because I didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression about how I am perceiving the state of my health these days — which not so coincidentally has been on the upswing since my primary care physician prescribed me the miracle drug Flonase for my now former case of postnasal drip.

Then I briefly considered naming this post In The Zone, partially in deference to the title of Britney’s fourth album but mostly for Emma, who, during a visit to the injection clinic after a recent checkup with her pediatrician, exemplified bravery for all the other boys and girls in the waiting area by not crying, screaming, or otherwise losing her mind — as she had every single time previously — while getting her shots.

While both of those phrases were in the running for the mythical catbird seat high atop the other 250+ words that comprise the body of this missive, they ultimately failed to encapsulate the true feel and spirit of what I wanted to get across to you today:  What would it be like to live in the part of Tennessee right on the dividing line of the Central and Eastern time zones and you constantly had to toggle between the two different times of day?  Would you wear two watches?  The clock on your cell phone would be working overtime trying to keep up with where you were.  I can only imagine the nightly migration westward around last call time in the clubs, pubs, taverns, watering holes, and dive bars to the east.

And don’t even get me started about how crazy tv would be there…

Let's see if you can find the mustachioed, xylophone playing version of me in this photo of the Capuchino Mustang Marching Band performing at halftime in 1986.

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