My own suffering has decreased somewhat. You’ll recall a recent breakthrough, wherein a reliable swing availed itself to me. With my first full round just around the corner, some additional range time is in order for this weekend, and I’m dreading the possibility of reaching into my golf bag and discovering, much to my dismay, that I’ve lost this newfound skill.

But let’s assume my swing is intact. There is still the issue of putting. I remember when I briefly tasted proficiency, a few months ago. Now, I’m having trouble reclaiming any of the secret sauce. I will watch in wonder as peers sink them from what seems like miles away, no doubt aided by witchcraft or other unholy pacts. Meanwhile, I’m adrift without a rudder, and it feels like I’m wielding a dowsing rod instead of a putter, desperately searching not for water, but competency.

124. That’s the current count. The last time we spoke on the matter, I was still at 180. You know what they call that, right? Progress. But when I think back, way back, well before the 180, I’m reminded of how far these boxes have traveled with me. Before I tore open the very first packet, I was in a different place. Different friends. Different juncture in my career. Different level of sociability. Different economy. Different in how I perceived golf. It’s been an odyssey of oats.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I’m being nostalgic out of necessity, rather than for nostalgia’s sake, and I’d love for nothing more than to rid myself of this shit. The dream is always the same: to wake up one morning and have waffles, or yogurt and granola, or pancakes, or, hell, even a Pop Tart. I’d add breakfast sandwiches to the list, only my favorite spot for those closed down sometime around the 150th packet. But persist I must because the finish line is in sight, the taste of freedom so close at hand.

Or partially attended, to be more precise. The night prior to the race, my buddy called to discuss carpooling plans and other details of the day. After about a minute, we leveled.

“I’ll be totally honest,” I said. “I’m going to do the bare minimum needed to get by tomorrow.”

Turns out he and his wife were on the exact same wavelength, and so we decided to leave the event at 1 PM, which would afford us a full five hours on site. But due to the mysteries of Asian time, those five hours yielded only a single race: the initial qualifying heat, which lasted about 80 seconds. The other 17,880 seconds were spent waiting, sitting, and wandering the fairgrounds, with tent after tent filled with exotic tchotchkes and inedible foods.

I’m being uncharitable here. I’d eat at any shithole of a Mexican restaurant in a heartbeat, but sanitation scores were suddenly crucial vis-à-vis stir-fry. Double standard, I know. But we stuck to our guns, punched out early, and there was nary a regret. Yesterday evening, in stark contrast, I was totally at ease during happy hour, and two, three hours went by in a flash as conversation, cheesesteak, and Vodka Red Bull flowed freely. I was at peace with who I am, and I had found my people. They just happen to look a little different than I do.