This morning, I had a most unsatisfying groundpound. There is simply no way to get into the â€œzoneâ€ if you have to keep your eyes directed to the six-feet of pavement in front of your feet in order to be able to see potential hip-breaking patches of ice. Iâ€™m tired of â€œlayering upâ€ before the groundpound and having to carry a paper towel in my pocket for the inevitable runny nose. I hate using lip balm. Iâ€™m tired of the freezing wind stinging my face.
Iâ€™m ready for some spring. In that regard, last week, the Usual Suspects booked the airline tickets for this yearâ€™s May assault on the Sunshine State, where I avoid going anywhere near fresh water unless itâ€™s in the pool or comes from the tap. Itâ€™s a gator thing. And, yes. Our place is on the second floor. I donâ€™t believe that gators can climb stairs. Did I mention that Iâ€™m scared shitless of alligators? I believe I have.
Excuse me while I pour myself another taste of Russellâ€™s Reserve Ten-Year Old Bourbon.
Farookinâ€™ winter. Feh!