I Predict We Stop Listening to Rodents

Bluffton Today column
February 2, 2011

Well, here we are again. Groundhog Day. Is it just me or do we do this every year? Over and over again. We wait for a woodchuck (yes, groundhogs are actually woodchucks) to emerge and predict the future. Er, weather.

It’s 2011. And we are relying on a groundhog to tell us what the next six weeks of weather will bring? I find this beyond bizarre. Should we instead, be seeking that little detail from say, oh, a meteorologist? Or perhaps someone with a smidge of college education under their belt?

Since the average lifespan of a groundhog is merely two – three years, I doubt they have had they time, in their busy schedules – hibernate, procreate, predict future, repeat - to matriculate.

With a mere 39% accuracy for the groundhog, one could argue that the weather man’s “it may rain- it may not rain” 50% accuracy rating is the better bet. Actually, you could hedge a bet on anyone.

Two weeks ago I had the nasty flu that’s been going around. (I likely caught it from you.) Anyway, I liken the groundhogs prediction to my flu predicament. I could go and see a doctor, take 10 days of antibiotics and get better. Or, in 10 days I could just be better. Meaning, I am just as qualified as the Yankee Groundhog, Punxsutawney Phil and his southern counterpart, General Beauregard Lee (I can’t make this stuff up) to pontificate on the weather.

As such, I thought I would describe to you what my morning is like … and you can then determine whether spring has sprung or winter will continue.

The alarm went off at 5:15 a.m. but that wasn’t the first time I turned bleary-eyed to the alarm clock fussing with four-letter words. No, I was up at 2:10 and again at 3:30 and 4:25 to boot. My groundhog, I mean dog, Darby has a tendency to sneak his way up the bed in the middle of the night, rendering me immobile, and actually yearning for reverie. Once the alarm sounds, one of two scenarios will follow.

Scenario one:
I’m up. I fumble on the nightstand for my glasses. One too many stubbed toes having taught me not to walk to the bathroom unaccompanied by spectacles. Splash water on face. Insert contact lenses. Don workout gear. Drive to boot camp. Sweat and pant uncontrollably for 60 minutes. Drive home. Shower. Debate need for blow drying hair. Eat breakfast. Guzzle coffee. Kiss dog goodbye. Embark on my day refreshed and ready to roll.

Scenario two:
“Darby, for crying out loud, this is my bed. My bed.” Tug covers from under dog and back up over shoulders. Try to fall back asleep. “Darby, it’s still bedtime, please stop licking my face.” Roll over and tug covers up over face. Enjoy seven minutes of additional sleep until whining commences. “Darby, please just let me have five more minutes.” More whining. “Hmph. Fine. I’m up. I’m up. I’m up.” Fumble on nightstand for glasses. Stumble downstairs. Let Darby out. Look at the clock and realize that I should have just rolled out of bed at 5:15 and I would already be on my way back from working out. I would be energized and much less cranky.

Now if this morning was a scenario one day, winter will soon be over, birds will sing, the sun will shine, chipmunks will chip, you get the gist. However, if this morning was a scenario two kind of day, we’ll have to wait until spring officially arrives.

I’d bet that regardless of which side of the bed I woke up on this morning, both scenarios will likely lead to March 20, a little more than six weeks from today, the official first day of spring.

Why are we leaving the prognosticating to a grasshopper and grub eating groundhog? Leave it to me. A margarita and mimosa drinking minx. I say shed the winter doldrums. Pull out the flip flops. Let the sun shine on your face and channel spring.

After all, isn’t it really just a state of mind?