I hate this time of year. Not because of the looming holiday gauntlet I'll be running for the next six weeks. It's not so much because I get endure another discontented winter watching my beloved 49ers circle the drain. It's a seasonal affective disorder though, triggered by shorter days, longer, colder nights and a protracted 158-mile daily commute that winds through the impacted colon of L.A.'s freeway system. It all started when Daylight Savings Time ended on the first of November.
Mornings are mostly okay. The sun came up at 6:32 a.m. It goes down at 4:45, giving us 10 hours, 11 minutes and 46 seconds to work with. As we begin the steady decent toward the shortest day of the year - 9 hours, 52 minutes and 51 seconds on December 21, a.k.a. Winter Solstice – the commute gets worse. Sure it's psychological. Everything is psychological to some extent. The stagnant four-lane river of cars is bad enough. Splitting lanes makes it endurable, except for the steady stream of two-wheeled sociopaths coming up from behind.