Thursday, December 6, 2012

Soon, in naught but a week, my odyssey of oats will draw to a close. Four packets left in the box. Four. I will be a free man, technically, but the bitter truth is I will be equal parts bewildered and unshackled, when that box finally hits the recycling bin. I’ve forgotten the taste of liberty, 956 packets later, and it’s highly likely I will drive to Target to procure one (one!) box of Apples & Cinnamon. Oatmeal is all I know now. I see him when I close my eyes–the Quaker Oats man, smug motherfucker with his smug smile and his smug hat.

If I sound incensed here, it is because I’m thinking about golf right now. Weather’s supposed to be gorgeous this weekend, which means–according to normal human custom–I will need to shuffle my pale corporeal form into the sunlight, away from the protective cover of masonry and glass. Going for a jog or playing tennis would be much more sensible, but sensibility has been firmly vetoed by a deep, abiding need to wield these clubs competently.

My last trip to the range was disastrous, highlighted by a complete evacuation of skill. There are no guarantees that this weekend will be any better, though I’ve been mentally prepping myself with my golf memoirs. In a way, I’ve drawn hope from my grueling–hey-o!–meditation on oatmeal: eat enough shit, and you may just find comfort at the bottom of your bowl.