Recently I rehabbed a beaten but not broken ping pong table located in a condemned building (no joke) called the paint barn, where it had sat for a number of years, neglected and forgotten. A vigilant ping pong scout located it and notified me, since I’ve become the POC, locally known as point of contact, and I went up to have a look and assess the condition of the table and decide of I should fill out a work order and wait until the polar ice melts or just fix it myself. I borrowed drills and hammers from the materials office, got screws, washers, nuts and bolts from the carpenter shop via my connections with my ex-roommate, and had some new angle iron cut and drilled by my buddy Harry from the metal shop, and within a few hours the table was resurrected to McMurdo standards, which is just a notch above scrap heap. The next day my friends at the recreation office secured a pick-up truck and four of us wrestled the new table into the truck and drove it down to the gym to join it’s sister table. The Air Force medic and I stayed behind to rig a new net and get the table in working order, and naturally had to play a little to make sure it was in proper tune like a baby grand.
Within a few minutes I suddenly started seeing double, as in 2 balls, 2 paddles, 2 of my opponent and just when I thought it might be time to take a break to decide if my brain was going to mush the world came back into normal focus and we finished our exercise and walked back to work. I casually mentioned my minor vision short circuit episode to the three doctors that were hanging around with nothing to do at the moment, and they decided it was a good excuse to swing into action and subjected me to a neurological and eye exam, EKG, glucose stick and blood draw plus an international consult back to the University in Texas to rule out everything from stroke to the Hanta virus strain found in young male lemurs in Madagascar. They lamented the fact that we don’t have an MRI machine here to allow them to scan my head and really see what’s going on in there, but wanted to once again blame my 9 lb peanut butter tub as the cause of the double vision. I sensed their disappointment when they couldn’t find a reason to pull out the gigli saw for a craniotomy to allow the demons to escape from my skull, but mentioned if I had a recurrence that I should let them do a spinal tap and some exploratory surgery so they could handle and visually confirm that all my vital organs were in their proper place, which I plan to schedule as soon as the sun burns out.
All the proof I needed that I was mentally healthy was that I won in Scrabble last night against the 2 friends who have been beating me like a dusty carpet, and I slept with a clear conscience until the alarm went off for another day at the rock pile. Hope your vision is clear and your eye on the ball.