Today is a red-letter day, the letter in question being a crimson “E” for “exercise,” because I spent a whole hour or so outdoors. Under the sun! Engaged in physical activity far beyond the scope of typing. Instead, I stood in place and swung my arms, much as cavemen likely did back in the day, at a driving range in preparation for tomorrow, the first tee-off of the year. The goal I set two nights ago could be attainable, I’m not exactly sure, but in between flashes of despair today I realized the push for a certain score might not be a sustainable reason to continue playing.
It’s back to skill acquisition for me, specifically obtaining the one thing that’s farthest from my mind on the green: equanimity. The word itself is relaxing. Like “grit,” “texture,” and “sanctuary,” it’s one of those nouns that sounds like what it defines. Calmness. Quiet in the storm. I’m usually focused during a swing, though the focus is informed by any number of nerve-racking things. Is every part of my body positioned correctly? How on earth did the group behind us catch up? Why am I so enraged?
The last time I played a round was two-and-a-half months ago, after which my blood pressure most certainly increased. Clubs, balls, tees, shoes–along with the mud encrusted on them–went straight into the closet. Now that I’ve had some time to breathe, however, I’m hoping this new slant will make a difference. Equanimity. Seems like it’d be useful on and off the course. I need it. Didn’t have much of it at the range today, when I found myself thinking, “You fucking ball.” So, I guess the opposite of that.
Why golf, in all of creation, was the first thing to come to mind when spring arrived, I’m not really sure. You could say it was Pavlovian, I suppose, but then you’d be soiling Pavlov’s good name, because he and his dogs were likely too smart to set foot on a golf course. And even if they did, they would’ve ceremonially killed themselves on the front nine, real proper-like. This is precisely what I failed to do in ’08 and now, with ’09 in full swing–ho ho!–I’m back on the green, none the wiser.
We didn’t part amicably last year, golf and I. My descent into the sport was never willingly initiated, propelled mainly by a desire for a new corporate skill, though at one point I could’ve sworn I felt what passes for enjoyment on the course. Turns out it was just a crick in my neck. The more common sentiment, instead, was rage: at the interminable setup for every shot, at all the lost balls, the exorbitant cost, unbidden advice, and finally, in a perfect capstone to all these infuriating things, a misplaced iron.
But there was one round last year where I punched in a 125–15 shy of my personal goal and still a ways from that magic 100, but directionally it was correct. The goal this year is to meet and exceed that high score. Consistently. Same commitments as before: borrowed or found equipment only, shoes notwithstanding. Absolutely no professional instruction. 110, three rounds. I can almost taste the competency.
The social plan ran into its first roadblock today, in what promises to be the first of many snags, when turnout simply disintegrated. I had pictured a showing of one, maybe two dozen people at the concert on Saturday, followed by a mellow reception, but what I hadn’t planned on was a complete dissolution of the event. The theater called yesterday, right around lunch time: part of the ticket money was being refunded because the reception had been cancelled, with only four RSVPs in tow.
Even then–and I demand brownie points for this–I had planned on going, until another call came this morning. It would be a party of three now, myself included, with the other two seats going to a mom and her son. Which could be a fun trip, were it not for, y’know, awkwaaard. So I tied it off. Called it: time of death, 10:32 AM. Then I tried giving away the tickets for free, only to find no takers whatsoever. Man. You’d figure a band resembling the Rolling Stones would attract something like enthusiasm, but you’d be figuring incorrectly. Now, it’s on to the next thing, an opportunity directly from the G himself. And, indirectly, this blog.
Speaking of which, blogs. After reading about how the real Slim Shady did stand up–and was then put down–I realized that a blog, much like Eminem’s corpus, mainly involves singing about yourself. I initially took offense at this, but then I started wondering whether Eminem blogs or uses Twitter, and how he could possibly rap about himself rapping about himself, all while beating women. A hypothesis, if I may:
Gotta yell at that bitch,
Tweet the one-four-oh.
Pimp hand on the keyboard
Pimp slappin’ the ho’.
Log off!
(What)
With the missus berated,
Time to rap about myself,
Status Update’s updated.
How do you top off
A Dr. Dre day?
Well, first Ima flog her,
And then Ima Blogger.