“God can wait,” declared the Chief late last week, and so ended my two-service streak of church attendance, replaced instead by a Sunday round of that unspeakably wretched sport. And yet, even though I was without congregation and scripture, the experience at hand had an Old Testament gravitas to it–harsh sun beating down upon my back, feet planted in a rich land wrought by the hands of slaves, and a general feeling of forsakenness. Had Moses appeared on the 8th, tablets in one hand and driver in the other, verily would he have proclaimed, “Let my people golf.” And exodus would have had to wait.
I played horribly. Perhaps it was divine retribution for skipping worship, I don’t know. A few weeks ago, I explained how I had felt the closest approximation to enjoying golf, ever, during a particularly revelatory round. My backswing clicked, shots took to the sky, and the game’s mysterious frequencies began to resonate with me. The ideal follow-up would’ve been to capitalize on this breakthrough, clock in those hours, and dig some serious grooves into my muscle memory. Naturally I did the exact opposite and opted for weeks of inactivity.
It’s nobody’s fault but my own, of course. Along those same lines, I realized on Sunday how truly lonely golf can be. Swing poorly, and it’s your fault. Lose a ball, and you’ve got to look for it. You might tee off with others, sure, and socialize accordingly, but in the end you’re completely accountable for your game. Certainly your clubs matter, offering you something to blame, though they only matter to a point, because you can drop thousands on a top-of-the-line set and still suck. There’s no opponent thwarting your finely conceived strategies, after all. It’s simply you and your irons fucking matters up.
Having said all this, I’m going for more tomorrow. It’s strange, you know? Because let’s be honest here. I usually emerge from the 18th slightly tanner, one or two chili dogs heavier, head pounding from too much sun, and very likely disappointed with how I played. There’s little in the way of positive reinforcement here. But there’s also this hope that if I touch the stove enough times, the very laws of nature will be subverted and I won’t get burned. I’ll just get competent.
Three hundred years from now, historians will no doubt attempt to codify my system for purchasing cereal, so I’ll lay it out here plainly to save them time. First, pay no more than $2.50 per box. Also! Try not to buy Fruity Pebbles. With such loose restrictions, you may suspect I’m easily compromised in the supermarket, and you’d be correct. I spied a rare sight in the breakfast aisle yesterday: a price tag proclaiming a virtually unheard-of $1.54 for an entire package of– Of Hannah Montana Multi-Grain Secret Star Cereal, apparently.
“Shit,” I muttered.
This was a problem, no two ways about it. On one hand, it was cheap and it wasn’t Fruity Pebbles. On the other hand, I couldn’t bring myself to reach for a box. Doing so would’ve ensured I’d bump into someone I knew minutes after–that’s how these things always happen, anyhow–and what’s more, I couldn’t imagine pouring myself a bowl the following morning. I’d be ashamed to eat it. I ended up grabbing some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which was fortified with just as much sugar and, most importantly, a little more dignity.
It also bears reporting that the shituation back on the home front appears to have resolved itself, courtesy of an indirect “Eff You” in place of darker remedies, and suburban life has reclaimed some of its comforting normalcy. But the next conundrum has already presented itself. My living room is being invaded by tiny spiders. They’re fast and almost seem to be able to fly across the ceiling. I’ve vacuumed a dozen tonight and, as I was typing the last paragraph, killed the few who dared land too close to the keyboard. I need to figure out how to get rid of them without pumping the interior full of pesticides. Until then, they’re free to spin their sinister webs, even as I weave mine.
There is a harsh list of criteria, almost as capricious as it is long, that must be met in order for me to attend church. First of all, I must awaken–unassisted by an alarm clock, naturally–somewhere from 8:20-8:33 AM EST. Any time outside this range renders attendance hopeless and sends me straight back to bed. It must not be rainy. It must also not be too sunny. The temperature gradient between indoors and outdoors must be just so.
When I do make it, I conveniently arrive 15 minutes late, just as the onstage band is knee-deep in some guitar riff, which effectively cuts worship music in half. 17-20 minutes of tardiness means I sidestep the offering plate entirely, thereby negating the need to swing by an ATM. And contrary to what the folded program might suggest, the service really ends shortly after the sermon, when I disappear immediately following the reverend’s closing prayer. It’s the churchgoing version of the Amen Corner, if you will.
You could say it was extraordinary, then–supernatural, perhaps–that I went to church for a consecutive Sunday and, more to the point, stayed until the very end. Truly, it was a day of days and lo! Unto you a heathen was sanctified, if only for an hour-fifteen. Whether I’ll be present for a statistically improbable third showing remains to be seen. This question of community, especially the religious variety, is something with which I continue to wrestle. I just don’t commune, you know? And I’m not referring here to the bread and wine.