Many years ago Dave Addis and I wrote a column for The Virginian-Pilot called “He Said She Said” where we bickered like a married couple.

We’re reviving it now for a little levity. And don’t we look cute in that ancient photo?

SHE SAID:

I’ve had it, Dave. I can’t take another EIGHT weeks of this insane Virginia shutdown.

It’s April and school’s out already. Weeks ago the governor stupidly closed the school for the academic year, the local superintendent said no more grades, and the unmotivated kids — that would have been me decades ago — have checked out.

Just what we need, another generation of dolts. Where will they work with newspapers circling the drain?

Meanwhile, we older folks are going to seed. Walking is fine, but it can’t compete with a solid hour at the gym. Lose a couple of months of workouts at our age and we’re never getting it back.

Since it seems we’re all going to be infected sooner or later by Covid-19 I’d like to be in the best shape possible — not a pale, doughy coach potato in sweatpants — when the nasty little virus makes its home in me.

There are so many inconveniences to the shutdown, I hardly know where to begin.

This won’t seem important to you, Dave, but my gel nails have moved into Dragon Lady territory. They’re so long I can barely type.  I need a decent manicure as much as I need a good computer to do my job.

I don’t know why my nail tech can’t do what they’re doing down at the 7-Eleven: Put up a big plastic shield, drill 10 holes in it that I can stick my fingers through, I’ll sit on my side and she can sit on hers and pare down these horrid claws that I’ve grown.

I’m also eating way too much. And spending an unhealthy amount of time with my dog. I could swear I heard him grumble the other day about his legs aching from too many walks.

I used to be disciplined. I had a rule against drinking during the week. Now I find myself wondering what wine goes best with Cheerios.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Golf courses are still open and so are the ABC stores. Yet the Mensa members running Virginia Beach have closed the city tennis courts.

Explain that, will you?

Our overlords in Richmond say we can swim, exercise and fish from the beach, but throw down a towel on an 80-degree day and they’ll frog-march you off to jail —  the very jails that are empty because they let the criminals out.

Thank goodness I still have my daddy’s surf fishing poles in the attic, Dave. I plan to take one with me anytime I need some sun.

Then again, I might just take my beach chair and see what happens. If a cop accuses me of napping I’ll tell him I’m perfectly legal, just doing my Kegel exercises.

Arrest me for THAT, Officer Friendly!

HE SAID:

OK, pal, I have to admit that I didn’t know what a Kegel exercise was.  Had to Google it. The Wiki that popped up was something about powerfully muscling-up those lady parts y’all have. 

My first thought was, “Oh good gawd, Kerry’s been locked up in the house doing Kegels for so long that by now she can probably lift a refrigerator with her nether regions.”

Yeah, I understand your frustrations — but, as usual, I’m gonna have to gently correct a couple of your “insights.”  Let’s start with the claim that you don’t drink during the week. 

Spare me:  We worked right next to each other for a decade as newsies on daily deadline, and I know bloody well that you were knocking back a few at the end of those shifts. How else could we have survived all that? 

As for wine and Cheerios — well, most connoisseurs would recommend a crisp chenin blanc, but I think a light Spanish rioja works just as well. A-salud.

You challenged me to explain why the tennis courts are closed but the golf courses are open.  I played tennis and golf for decades, you didn’t, so I can handle that one.

Y’see, Kerry, in tennis, two sweaty players are constantly rubbing the same pair of fuzzy balls, which is never hygienic whether you’re playing tennis or engaged in some other activity. Arrrgh! Wash yer hands!!

In golf, though, the players never touch each others’ balls — unless you find yourself lost in the woods with your “funny uncle,” but that’s an entirely different situation and it doesn’t really happen often.

In golf, Kerry, four players gather on the tee, “socially distanced” at more than 6 feet so they don’t split each other’s heads open with their hopeless “practice swings.”

Then, one at a time, the golfers launch their balls in entirely different directions and set off alone to find them — usually in the shrubs or a creek. Ten minutes later they gather on the green and lie shamelessly about how many strokes it took them to get there. 

These lies are integral to the game of golf. That’s why, through the ages, golf has been a favorite pastime of presidents and real-estate hustlers.

(I’ve seen pictures of Bill Clinton and Donald Trump playing golf together.  Can you imagine how many lies that spawned?  No squad of FBI snoops or Senate investigators could possibly unwind that one.)

Virginia’s beach rules?  You’ve got me there, I surrender.  It makes no sense whatsoever to say it’s OK to sit on the beach next to a fishing pole but not a tube of Coppertone. No. Sense. Whatsoever.

So, light up your daddy’s fishin’ rod — don’t even bother with bait, just cast a lead sinker out there. Officer Friendly won’t know the difference.

And if he’s as clueless on Kegel exercises as I was, just have him Google it, like I did.  I guarantee you that his eyebrows will lurch, his badge will spin on his chest, and he’ll motor away on his little 3-wheel scooter without dragging you off to jail.

Enjoy the sun, pal. It seems to be shining on everything but your governor’s skull.