I savor it more than any day of the year. It's the last weekend in October, when we get to set our clocks back one whole hour. It's like the federal government gives every citizen one whole hour to do nothing at all. I know, of course, that come spring, they're going to take that hour away from me, but for six whole months, it's mine, all mine.

This year, my wife pointed out a story in the paper: According to a Swedish study, published in the New England Journal of Medicine, the end of daylight savings time each fall might actually save your life. About 5 percent fewer heart attacks occur on the day after we get to turn back the clock, mostly because that extra hour of sleep lets crabby people deal with the frustrations of life just a little bit better.

I don't smoke (a cigar or two a year — not so much for the nicotine, but just to look manly), I don't drink heavily (a treat I'm putting off till retirement) and I keep in somewhat decent shape (enough to stay alive, but clearly not enough for anyone except my wife to notice). So I'm not too worried about heart attacks. Every one of my male ancestors going back to Seamus O'Malley McKay in old Ireland has died at young ages, usually because their tickers stopped ticking, but if I plan my golden years properly, I can shop only in stores equipped with emergency defibrillators.

Because I gained the extra hour, my wife said, for the entire day I had to give up one of my favorite habits — getting aggravated at people. I reluctantly agreed, even though I found the request somewhat aggravating.

We spent the afternoon doing errands, ending up in the end at the supermarket. In the checkout line, as often happens, my wife realized that she forgot a few items and told me to get in line. I can't prove it, but I suspect she goes back and reads magazines or looks at nail polish shades while I wait in line. (Not that I find that aggravating.)

The supermarket was crowded, as usual for a Sunday afternoon, but I squeezed in line at the self-checkout line behind a woman in a brown coat. I must have gotten a little too close, because she leaned back and, using her rear end, banged my cart to the side. I stared at her, about to say something. Before I could open my mouth, though, she did it again.

By the time my wife returned to the line, she could see that my temporary positive attitude had gone sour, the way a banana turns black while you're not looking. Soon it became clear that this wasn't just an accident, and we were stuck behind a world-class passive aggressive jerk. Seeing the line building up, when it came time for her to step up to the scanner, she began to slowly, slowly, slowly scan her items, pausing before each one with a sly smile. I wanted to say something to her, but she looked vaguely familiar, and it's always a bad idea to get into a fight with someone who might turn out to be the person who's doing your root canal next week.

I tried to flip through some gossip magazines, but after 10 minutes, I ran out of scandal. I began scanning the candy bars, trying to decide on my favorite. At 18 minutes, I began to do the deep breathing thing we'd learned years ago in Lamaze class. By 23 minutes, I felt like giving up and asking for an epidural.

At 27 minutes, guy behind us leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. He and his wife had gotten so bored they'd begun to rummage through their groceries. He offered me a chocolate chip cookie.

Somewhere around the 40-minute mark, a clerk came by and nervously asked the lady in the brown coat if she needed help bagging. The woman waved her off, saying that she didn't like other people to bag her items. At 45 minutes a manager, seeing the possibility of a riot, came and began redirecting people in our line to other lines.

As we checked out in our new line, I glared across the lanes at the lady in the brown coat. I wanted to shout out out, "I want my hour back!"

But I didn't, mostly because I was starting to feel a vague pain in my left shoulder.

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