I miss my neighbors.
Joe, Nancy, Frank, Bart, Melissa, Julie and their bundle of children.
I see them every day. We sort of speak to each other every day. But it is a quick hello, how are you from 30 to 40 feet away as we go in our own direction.
Today we are trying something different. We are having a social distancing party in the back yard. The goal is to remain 6-10 feet away. But we won’t treat each other like zombies from another planet.
We will actually talk to each other and not yell. We will actually get to see how everybody is doing. We will eat and we will drink almost like normal human beings.
We won’t hug. We won’t kiss. We won’t pat each other on the ass, although ass patting is allowed under new guide lines during this Covid-19 crisis that has gripped the world.
I just want to get close enough to my neighbors to see bald spots, gray hair or new freckles that popped up. Who lost weight? Who gained weight? Who looks older? Who looks younger?
Just normal stuff.
My wife Abs won’t be there. Thank God. She is the female version of Dr. Anthony Fauci. The difference is her guidelines are much tougher. She does not want me to eat at our social distance party.
But I figure if we can eat a meal from a random restaurant delivered by Door Dash that I can eat a hotdog grilled by Joe, Frank or Bart.
People bitch about the rules set by Michigan Governor Gretchen Whitmer. You are lucky that Gov. Abs is not in charge. Cars would be stranded all over the state because she would not see buying gas as an essential purchase. Our state would open in the fall — of 2025.
Normally, this weekend I’d be at the St. Mary’s Fair sipping on a beer and listening to music. Or watch my son Brandon avoid me as he’s hanging with friends. I miss that festival and hopefully I can attend next year.
I get a great consolation prize. I get to see my neighbors today.
And we won’t have to yell at each other from 30 feet away.
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