I think everyone on the 5:27 to Mt. Kisco had the same thing on their mind yesterday: This daylight savings time thing sure is sweet.

With the extra hour of sun hitting us fully three weeks earlier than it did two years ago, it warmed the soul to come out of the Grand Central tunnel and see sunlight shining over Harlem, sunlight that lasted all the way to our stop.

For a moment, I cursed the sun staring me in the face as I labored up the giant hill on Broad Street, a big yellow ball just starting to contemplate its descent behind the cliffs separating us from Sleepy Hollow. But then I came to my senses, and realized how much nicer it was than the pitch black and a stiff, frozen wind in my mug.

Cheesy as it may sound, strains of “Here Comes the Sun” ran through my head–all together now, it’s been a long cold lonely winter/It feels like years since it’s been here–as Little G and I ran around the backyard, pretending we were, respectively, Lightning McQueen and and Strip Weathers (ask any boy between 2 and 5 if you don’t know what that means).

We’d kicked winter’s dark, finger-numbing, spirit-sapping, seemingly endless ass. The days of al fresco margaritas can’t be far behind.