There was a time in America when a man knew what day it was.
He might not have known the capital of Vermont, the square root of 83, or why his muffler sounded like a popcorn machine on steroids… but he knew what day of the week it was.
Now, thanks to the marvels of modern technology (or better yet – the depressing regression of the human intellect) – one of the most commonly searched questions on Google is:
“What day is it?”
I’m not making this up.
We have atomic clocks. We have satellites orbiting the Earth. We have wristwatches that can monitor your heart rate, your sleep cycle, and possibly even your mental decline. And yet we are apparently wandering through life like castaways asking a glowing, futuristic cyber box, “Excuse me… what day is it?”
What happened? Did calendars suddenly offend someone without me learning about it?
There was a time when every kitchen in America had a calendar hanging on the wall featuring either scenic barns, a tractor dealership, or a variety of lovable dogs. Every morning you’d walk past it, glance at it and take note that it was Wednesday. Nobody needed a search engine.
Now we have to consult The Great Oracle of Silicon Valley.
I can almost understand losing track of days between Christmas and New Year’s. That stretch of time is not governed by natural law. It’s a cholesterol-induced fog where folks are consumed with worrying that maybe they now have diabetes. But on a random April afternoon? How are we confused! Are people still living at home with their parents and heading out to Chuck E. Cheese for dinner? Is there a human-sized rodent running around and erasing all of society’s temporal awareness? Because I do not recall adulthood being this disorienting.
We carry in our pockets devices more powerful than the computers that put a man on the moon, and we are using them to rediscover that yesterday was Sunday and tomorrow is Tuesday.
But it’s not just that question.
People also ask Google: “What time is it?”
Now I don’t wish to be unkind, but unless you’re living inside a cave with horrible Wi-Fi reception, the time is located in at least three places within arm’s reach. 1: It is on your phone. 2: It is on your laptop. 3: It is on your microwave that’s still blinking 12:00 because no one has reset it since the power went out last year.
Yet we type it anyway. “What time is it?”
The truth is, when people ask, “What day is it?” or “What time is it?” they’re not really asking about the calendar or the clock. They’re basically asking, “How did I get here?” It’s the modern day equivalent of standing on the porch and asking a neighbor, “You got any idea what’s going on?”
Of course, some searches are understandable. Like the weather forecast, or if the stock market is up or down, or how long it takes to boil an egg… after all, eggs can be tricky.
But the day of the week? That feels like something we ought to have a handle on before getting behind the wheel of an automobile.
Perhaps the solution is simple. Buy a calendar. A big one. Hang it on the wall. Let it feature barns, tractors, dogs, or whatever. Each morning, look at it like your ancestors did and declare with confidence:
“It is Monday. And that explains why I feel the way I do.”
No Wi-Fi required.
Former Blackout Artist 