PUMPING IRONY: No Complaints

Well, the weekend came and went and I was somehow able to circle my way around whatever it was that was bothering me last Wednesday. This H1N1 flu scare has everyone I know walking on eggshells, and while I don’t tend to panic about these sorts of things, you never know. . . . It seems as though two… Read more »

Well, the weekend came and went and I was somehow able to circle my way around whatever it was that was bothering me last Wednesday. This H1N1 flu scare has everyone I know walking on eggshells, and while I don’t tend to panic about these sorts of things, you never know. . . . It seems as though two days of working at home and a decent night’s sleep did the trick.

I even managed to do a little work on the house on Saturday (got the storm windows on in plenty of time for our current warming trend . . . geez!) And, then on Sunday, I dragged my tennis buddy, M.E., away from his household duties and we managed to get in a set of tennis before the Vikings game.

The tennis was forgettable. I played putridly, he played slightly less putridly, and the result was 6-4 in his favor. I noted afterward that he had called it an “exhibition match” prior to us warming up (he was concerned about his stiff shoulder), but he’d conveniently forgotten that point after he hit one of the few good shots of the day — cross-court winner at set point. Whatever.

Besides, it was a beautiful day.

I wasn’t sneezing and blowing my nose. My fever was long gone. What’s to complain about?

We retired to his living room for three hours of watching large men collide with one another before I headed home. There, My Lovely Wife reminded me that we still needed to get to the co-op if we wanted to eat, so I climbed on my Schwinn and pedaled the 6 miles along the river to the store. The bike path was packed with happy Minnesotans enjoying the balmy weather after a week of brutal early-winter temperatures, so I settled into a nice rhythm and marveled at the fall colors on the bluffs overlooking the Mississippi.

Home again with the goods, we put together a meal that miraculously coincided with my son’s emergence from his room and my daughter’s return from work. And while it wasn’t exactly a Norman Rockwell moment (he wolfed down his meal while describing some horror movie he’d been watching; she grabbed a plate and escaped to her basement bedroom), MLW and I enjoyed a fine repast among the cacophony.

And why not? For the moment, at least, everyone was healthy. What’s not to like about that?

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