Thirteen Damn Days

I don’t wish time away.

I know that every day is a blessing, but I’m 13 days away from my annual golf outing with my long-time friends.

Five rounds, hot tub, dinners at the club, crab cakes as big as my head, a few drinks, a lot of laughs.

I’ve been talking to the ball that I’m going to hit off the first tee.

And this is why.

Woke up Tuesday morning wondering why my right knee wasn’t working properly.

It was fine when I went to bed.

The wind takes the temperature down.

Absolute misery out in the cold, and I almost broke my neck slipping on the ice, but my unbelievable balance kept me upright.

Then the temp goes up enough just enough to turn Ollie Stadium into a mud pit and his paws need to be wiped whenever he comes in.

Wind. Cold. Mud. Ice. Winter weather advisories.

And I’m driving around talking to my golf ball.

And trying not to watch the news.

13 days.

It’s going to pass like a year.

“It’s 78 where you’re going in Florida,” Kathy mentioned.

“15 with wind here next week.”

“Yeah, but pretty soon.”

Yep.

Pretty soon.