I’m a little grumpy today, and I probably shouldn’t be.
The little bubble of gas finally has disappeared from my right eye.
See, if a surgeon has to re-attach the retina to the back of your eye, the doc can sew up a bad tear (like mine) with what they call a “rope.”
But next, the surgeon inserts a pretty big bubble of gas which, if I’m understanding this correctly, helps seal the rip and smooth out any scarring on your retina.
For a few weeks, then, there’s this moving, opaque THING in your eye and you kind of look through it, sort of, with things just a tad off.
A couple of times, I thought I’d adopted a second cat. I never took that particular vision seriously, since Sammie would never permit it.
Anyway, my doctor told me the bubble would get smaller, and then just vanish.
It has, and I’m lovin’ it.
So why am I a bit out of sorts on a Sunday then?
Look, almost all of us remain under Boss Brad’s house arrest, and it’s no fun.
I get that.
We’ve been in lockdown for ... what?
Ten days, maybe?
According to almost every knowledgeable source, we could be staying home for quite some time past mid-April.
And as we’ve heard so often that it feels as though it were imprinted at birth, we need to “flatten the curve” before parts of the country start to open up.
Already, people are whining.
What are we going to DO with ourselves?
Here’s a phrase that makes my teeth hurt: “Stuck in the house. How am I supposed to stay in shape? To keep from getting fat?”
All that whimpering makes me think of the movie, “A League of Their Own,” about a women’s professional baseball league that sprung up in the early days of World War II.
In a classic scene, Tom Hanks (playing a gruff ex-big leaguer who is now managing the Racine Belles) shouts at his right fielder, portrayed by Bitty Schram.
The tiny blonde player bursts into tears, and Hanks hollers a now-famous line: “There’s no crying in baseball!”
There’s no whining in lockdown.
Now, if you have honest-to-goodness psychological issues with such enforced isolation, that can be a real thing and you might need to seek some help.
I’m not referring to that.
I’m looking at people who act as though it’s impossible to exercise because the gym’s closed, or their fitness guru is helping out at the hospital.
Talk about a First World problem.
Hey, a Frenchman named Elisha Nochomovitz just ran a marathon (26.2 miles) on his BALCONY, which is only 23 feet long.
He can’t remember how many trips he jogged, back and forth, but it took more than six hours – and he said his biggest fear would be complaints from his neighbors about all the thudding.
Nochomovitz hasn’t been the only one refusing to be deterred.
Athletes ran around their apartments in Wuhan, and cyclists found ways to train in their locked-down Abu Dhabi hotel rooms.
Get out and walk, my friends.
Or jog, even.
Maybe you’ll meet me strolling around the Twin Lakes Village golf course — only without my clubs.
(At least I don’t have to worry about the sand traps ... not yet.)
But remember ...
Stay six feet away, and just holler: “Yo!”
You’re welcome to join the blog. Any time, on any subject. Or with any opinion that doesn’t get us sued. Sometime this coming week, we’ll troll through some of your thoughts.