Sunday, March 14 ranks as my least favorite day of the year.

Now, I have nothing against Sunday. Any day you’re supposed to rest wins my approval.

Nor do I object to the actual date. Why on earth would you not celebrate Albert Einstein’s birthday or mark the anniversary of Eli Whitney securing his patent by wearing all-cotton clothing?

My problem stems from the time change. Aside from its uselessness, I not only detest springing forward to lose an hour, but also being told which hour to lose.

Granted, they’ve already trained my appliances to make the jump from 1:59 a.m. to 3 a.m. without a flux capacitor.

And others seized the moment to train me to check my batteries, smoke detectors and first-aid kits. However, I one-upped them. Instead of changing my light bulbs, I searched Kudzu.com for a local electrician and found one with a high rating. Might as well make the most of a lost hour. Next year I plan to check his reviews to ensure he’s still in good standing. Or find a plumber.

So why can’t I decide what hour I want to lose? I definitely wouldn’t surrender one where I’m asleep. I cherish those. How about I give back one where I’m stuck in traffic? I’d even toss in a draft pick to sweeten that deal. Or how about those few minutes with Kaylee that seemed like an hour?

But don’t make me return any that include dreaming. Unless it’s the one where I’m in my fighter jet pajamas, eluding the asylum guards before plunging into quicksand. That one’s all yours.

Maybe I should recover my lost hour by searching for a psychiatrist.