As if we needed one, we have yet another reason to love Ben Franklin, a man admired by everyone except maybe his barber.

I bring you good news of great joy that shall be to you and all people who are sick of winter, or sick of February’s record rainfall, or sick of Mr. Bleak and his bastard cousin, Mrs. Chill.

Daylight Saving Time begins next Sunday, March 11. Just 10 more days, baby!

The idea of such a thing occurred to Franklin during a long visit to Paris, a town where people didn’t mind staying up late and sleeping until past noon. (Everyone except the apple peddlers and waste management thought they were a rock star.) Adding an hour onto the day’s backside would mean one less hour of candle burning; think of the wax and wicks the town could save! (There had to be a store in Paris in 1750 named “Wax and Wicks.” HAD to be.)

So Ben brought it up in a sort of whimsical, “Poor Richard” kind of way, but everyone just laughed, as they often did back in gay Pariee in the frolicking, corset-heavy 18^th century. “That’s just Ben being Ben,” they said before chopping someone else’s head off, catching the latest movie on the Enlightenment, or rushing off to either attend a Bordeaux tasting or invent quiche.

Unlike the French Revolution, The Daylight Saving Time idea got zero traction. Ben died, and the idea too.

Except it didn’t.

Europe started DST in World War I, and America jumped in there for a year. We were hit and miss until the mid-1960s when DST became A Real Thing. Arizona gets a pass so people in Tucson and Phoenix can run their air-conditioners less, and Hawaii gets a pass because it’s Hawaii.

Ten days, sweet cheeks! It’ll hurt to push your clock forward that first day and miss an hour of sleep, but you’ll adjust. So hang in there; everything’s going to be blue skies and sunshine.

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