My power went out this morning at 7 a.m.

I was awake at the time, more or less — my alarm had sounded 15 minutes earlier and I was indulging in my usual routine of bashing the snooze button half a dozen times before I finally get up, wishing all the while that the idiots who design these things would give me a full five minutes in between bashings instead of only three — and I heard the ceiling fan and the furnace fall silent.

Now, the power used to go out all the time when I was a kid. My hometown was pretty far out in the sticks back then, before the suburban sprawl creeping outward from metro Salt Lake finally caught up to us, and I guess we only had a single set of transmission lines coming into town across the far and wide desert, or some damn thing, because any time the wind blew, something would short out somewhere and we’d be in the dark for a few hours. I used to think it was fun, actually. I can’t remember ever being afraid of the dark, and having to use candles struck me as a neat change from the usual routine.

To be honest, I still don’t mind the occasional outage, although given how much of my work and entertainment now revolves around electronic gadgets, I tend to get bored more quickly than I did when I was a kid. Even so, I was completely unprepared for just how truly, alarmingly inconvenient it is to lack electricity during the hour when I’m getting ready for work.

A hot breakfast was out of the question, for one thing. Normally, that wouldn’t be a big deal — I typically eat a bowl of cereal while standing over the kitchen sink, just like any other red-blooded American male with no children for whom a proper example needs to be set — but, as it happens, today I was all set to try out these Jimmy Dean Egg McMuffin-ish things I bought on a whim last night. With no electricity, though, I had no microwave, and thus, no Egg McMuffin thingies. So, fighting back the tears of disappointment, I hauled out the usual box of boring old Frosted Mini-Wheats and moved toward the kitchen sink.

A hot shower was still possible, and, in fact, showering by candlelight proved to be rather soothing. (You see, it’s still quite dark in the Salt Lake Valley at 7 a.m. in the last week of January, and the carport on north side of the house makes the situation even worse.)

But the real challenge proved to be shaving. Yes, I do wear a full beard, but unlike those slovenly hipster types you see walking around out there with facial shrubbery that stretches from right under their noses all the way down into their underwear, I strive to emulate the neat-n-clean “Number One” style of beard. In other words, I shave my neck.

The thought of doing it by candlelight was so daunting, though, that I considered forgoing this step of my morning routine. My attitude about bushy-necked hipsters aside, it really wouldn’t have hurt anything to skip it. But after three days without stepping near a blade, it was really starting to itch, and having a collared work shirt rubbing on it all day was only going to make it worse. So I moved the candle in close to the mirror, experimented with where I should stand for maximum illumination, took a deep breath, and…

Well, I managed. But it occurred to me during the process that it’s probably a good thing our ancestors, who lived in much dimmer circumstances than we and shaved with straight-edged razors, tended to reproduce before their beards came in fully. Otherwise, the human race might’ve died out from accidental throat-cuttings…