Success on all fronts, I’m pleased to report, though the allure of cramming down multiple pimento sandwiches was much easier to resist this year than the last. Novelty, or more precisely the lessening thereof, certainly played a part. Whereas my first trip to the Masters was predicated on the likelihood that I would only attend the event once in my life, which effectively triggered a need to consume in excess, this trip was far more tempered. The Masters will be there as long as golf persists, and more importantly the opportunity to slather an odd cheese spread over cheap bread is really only limited by how often I shop for groceries.
Final sandwich count? One pimento, two chicken, one egg salad, and half a cookie. This wasn’t all at once, mind you–I have standards to maintain, you know–and the year-over-year decrease was substantial. The real coup, of course, came at the gift shop, where the final bill topped just over $83. Here, too, I made my peace with the novelty of Augusta, and in so doing accepted the merchandise for what it truly was: goods that had been routed to a different assembly line in faraway China to be stamped with the Masters logo.
I didn’t leave the course unscathed, though. Space-age sprayable block and traditional hat technology could only ward off so many of the sun’s vile rays, and here we are, four days later, deep in the sloughing process. And the pollen. The pollen! It is hellbent on my ruination. I glanced at the bathroom mirror yesterday in horror, my bloodshot, darkened eyes looking back at me. It’s like Mother Nature punched me twice in the face, honestly, and I will have my revenge. Perhaps I will generously litter. There is also the option of pulling up to the greenway and letting my car idle for a few hours, gas permitting. I haven’t decided yet.
Augusta! Tomorrow. There will be more sunshine and fresh air absorbed in a single day than I traditionally collect in two to three months, and I am ready. I’m far less prepared, however, for when I must wake–5:15 A.M.–and that explains why we’re communing earlier tonight. 5:15. Five-fifteen. It is an unholy time of day, yet completely necessary to avoid rush-hour traffic, which Deadpan has generously offered to negotiate.
In our last road trip, his truck was essentially a country limousine that ferried us to a wholly different event catered to a wholly different crowd, for whom “72 holes” could only ever describe premium programming on Skinemax. But this time, the vehicle will shoulder an entirely different mantle, transforming into a bourgeoisie caravan bound for the mecca of golf.
It really is a Luddite’s paradise, upon reviewing the list of prohibited items, with every conceivable electronic device barred at the gates. This would be, like, my dream place, were it not for two problems. First, there is no air conditioning. And second, there is only golf. I’m conflicted here. Imagine, if you will, a starving fellow whose sole source of food is a cache of expired Luna Bars, and you will begin to understand my dilemma.
A few weeks ago, we discussed my main goal for the event: restraint, in the face of all that is buyable and edible. The quantity of trinkets and egg salad sandwiches may be too much to bear, but it is in the very act of bearing where the greatest value lies. I plan on traveling light, with naught but my wallet, eye drops, and Zyrtec in my pockets. We shall see if I succeed, and should I fail, well, all that egg salad isn’t going to eat itself.
For a few wretched moments today, my life would’ve flashed before my very eyes, were it not for the fact they were damn near swollen shut from the pollen. You simply can’t enjoy a glossy montage of your greatest hits via an itchy, red, half-closed glare, you know? It’s just incredibly inconvenient, and I don’t see the state of affairs changing anytime soon for the next few weeks. Spring is in full swing, heralded by daily highs in excess of 85 degrees Fahrenheit, and with it hay fever in its most virulent splendor. Constant headaches, phlegm to spare, watery eyes, car covered in a fine green powder within hours of washing–I shall not want for anything, at least.
This is the special time of year when allergy sufferers are fucked by trees. Literally. To be clear, I’m not suggesting a fucking with here, if we may keep our prepositions in order. It’s not like the row of pines behind your office is playing a clever practical joke on you, then slugging you in the arm to let you in on it. No, we’re cleaving closely to definition number one, because there are some vile elements floating through the air right now: aerosolized sap, spores, grass particulates, and heaven knows what other kinds of flower lovin’ are shooting down your tear ducts.
I hightailed it out of the Midwest because of the bitter cold. Here in the South, winters are indeed milder, but I can only leverage this so much before I need to pay up again, with severe allergies as the currency of choice. Is there any region of the U.S. that boasts a temperate climate, little pollen, and reasonable cost of living? Does such a place even exist? Or perhaps there’s some larger life lesson to be learned here, where one season will invariably be a wash. Three out of four ain’t bad, I suppose.