Jet lag gets a terrible rap. But maybe we should learn to love it. Because the disruption of our body’s rhythms as we fly across time zones tells an alternate history of our age
I am descending on Singapore. Around me, prone bodies are shrouded in polyester blankets. The attendants have switched off the last remaining lights and that odd, suspended state takes over. It is 16:27 in my body and my brain, but all around me it’s half-past midnight. I’ll land in my evening, just in time to start my day. But that’s fine by me.
Jet lag does not exist.
Or, if jet lag does exist, it may not be what we think it is.