Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The gears of preparation began churning in earnest recently, with the return visit mere days away, and my goal will be singular this time. I don’t mean to conjure an image of wandering the grounds with clipboard in hand, crossing off action items on a checklist in an OCD-fueled frenzy. The greens will be stunning, I’m sure, and there will be ample sunshine guaranteed, whether by nature’s due course or whatever witchcraft emanates from the clubhouse, and I’ll soak in all of it under the auspices of a business outing.

But I’d like to get something more out of the trip. Last time was a sensory overload, honestly, and much attention was spent marveling at the privilege of attending an exclusive event. It’s still a privilege, obviously, but there’s a little less novelty this go-around. I recall downing multiple pimento cheese sandwiches a year ago because I was certain I would only attend the Masters once, and the same mentality guided the temporary madness that seized me in the gift shop. And believe me, the overlords who run the event know to take full advantage of this insanity, engineering the whole checkout process to be utterly seamless as you part with your cash for snacks and sundries.

This year, however, will be about regulating said consumption. Restraint will be the order of the day. I’m wise now to the cunning money traps they’ve devised, and I will not succumb to the mystique of the event. We’re talking two pimento sandwiches instead of four. Three promotional cups, rather than five. And when I set foot inside the house of baubles, gaze upon the overpriced trinkets, I will resist. Stroll by the Masters apparel, and remember I can buy three normal shirts for the same price. Pick up some branded golf balls, and then realize I will likely lose them under a pile of unbranded leaves. Glance at the limited-edition putter with a Tiger-approved shaft, and chuckle.