As one year ends and another begins, we find ourselves … well … bewildered … yet again.

It just happens too fast.

I’m sure you are familiar with “The Santa Clause” (1994) and sequels, wherein Scott Calvin, played by Tim Allen, gets snookered into becoming the jolly old elf, which results in no end of suspended-disbelief complications and psychological damage, all covered up with the schmaltz of a new-age extended family coming together in 5,000-calorie treacle.

Please, send no angry emails, I love the movie.

I front-up this holiday classic only as a roadmap to my own (and maybe your own) snookering, wherein Father Time seems to have fallen off my roof, and I have become him. In this case, I did not willingly put on his clothes. It’s just that his generous waist size has kinda become mine over time, and his way-out-of-date fashion was chosen not for style so much as because it was on the discount rack.

I mean, a white robe or pillow-sack nightshirt is good for any occasion, right? (Put that photo in your dating profile.) And carrying a big-ole scythe, as often depicted in Father Time images, is my weapon of choice as I seek out any and all who have put me in this ridiculous position. I think it’s no coincidence that The Grim Reaper is just father time in hooded blackout.

And, as Father Time painfully knows, for anyone on the shorter end of their vacation on the old third-rock, the passage of time is accelerating like a warp-speed takeoff.

So, how did this preposterous, suspended-disbelief complication arise so suddenly, we ask ourselves?

And the universe answers… with the sound of crickets.

So, we plunge into a study of the musings of philosophers, psychologists, gurus, monks and aging hacks throughout the centuries, and we only come up with the weakest of theories, which suggests we gauge time intervals in proportion to our total lifespan.

Seriously, that’s all you got?

I mean, that’s the dodge we use on grandchildren when we forget to pick them up from school, and they feel that waiting two hours in the snow is, like, a really long time.

“Ah, get over it ya whiners. Wait-till ya get old. You’ll wish things moved so slowly. Here’s a Snickers bar. Divi it up and stop yer cryin’.”

Of course, some theories feature boredom as a time-brake. I.E. the more bored you are, the slower time moves. The more fun you are having, the faster time rips by. For example, kids are always complaining that they are bored because they can’t just leave the house and go have fun at a dive bar whenever they want to. And all those Christmas toys? Eight days distraction, tops.

Testing this theory, I, as a presumed adult, have pursued boredom ruthlessly by refusing to do anything productive. And, it kinda works, at least until the toilet overflows. Then “busy,” in the form of “oy,” is thrust upon you and your study goes a-glimmering.

And so, after exhausting all available resources, personal, scientific, cultural, historical, religious, and even checking in with the wild man on the offramp, who holds the cardboard sign that says, “The end is near, I take Venmo” … the only logical conclusion is that some cosmic trickster is pointing the remote at me and pressing fast-forward. And I can only hope his batteries run out of juice before mine do.

Happy New Year?

Jim Walker is a writer for SCVNews.com/SCVTV. His humor columns, under “Don’t Take Me Seriously,” are published at Jim’s Book, Medium.com and elsewhere.