There should’ve been a chalk outline at the driving range on Saturday, such was the crime scene that unfolded there, and the prime suspect was yours truly. I’d like to tell you I killed it–in the good sense of the word–but reality had a markedly different recounting of what happened. Indeed, the only thing I killed was competency, last sighted in April, now dead and buried in the firmament.
I want to blame it on the mat. When I thought I had divined the secrets of golf a few weeks ago, I was hitting off of one. This time, I was on the grass. Theoretically, I know the experience shouldn’t be that different, but this knowledge offered small comfort. My backswing also felt tense and unnatural. Final accounting? Out of the 70-odd balls I hit, I was only satisfied with three of them. That is some bad math, any way you slice it.
A scant four days from now, I will play my first full round in years. I’m nervous. I’m sure my lack of consistent practice hasn’t helped matters at all, and I wish I had gone more. But I’m out of time. The source of my anxiety, in truth, is only a few seconds in duration. It’s the first tee off, where all eyes are on you: the rest of your foursome waiting for you to begin, the foursomes behind you secretly anticipating catastrophe, and your own eyes peering at a far point on the fairway, hoping luck will bear your ball beyond reproach. I just need to make it through that first swing–and then the other 200-something strokes will be gravy.
The excitement of having an entire political party descend on your city is virtually unimaginable, literally, because I’m not sure why anybody would want such a thing to happen. Imagine if your town were chosen for the Olympics. Then, take away the sports, the torches, and the medals. It’s kinda like that, albeit with the specter of horrific traffic. I guess it might be exciting if you own a restaurant and want a million percent more foot traffic. But I don’t own a restaurant, and with the DNC just two weeks away, I was jolted to realization: it’s time to stock up on food and water and batten down the fucking hatches.
The last time I was in the vicinity of politics was 2008–the first time I ever voted. I remember the wait. The excitement. Bodies wending toward rows of metal machines. I remember the plastic man who tried to touch my hand. In truth, I only remember these things because I re-read the post. Four years after casting my ballot, I’ve reverted back to political apathy, and it’s served me well.
Perhaps I haven’t completely backslid, because I still plan on voting. I do so, however, unencumbered by illusions of partaking in something larger than myself. It is a grim duty to be endured, like a dental cleaning or an oil change. Mainly? I want that “I Voted” sticker to add to the back page of my soiled office notebook.
An utter failure. That’s how I’d describe the party or, more to the point, my performance at the party. The event itself was above reproach: ample bustle, a curated playlist, handpicked entertainments, plenty of food and drink. But what I thought I could wing instead kicked my ass, certifiably and with return postage included, and the following day I found myself brooding in my dark place, which you may know as Taco Bell.
When it comes to social gatherings, I know exactly the person I need to be. This time, I grabbed hold of that archetype and did the exact opposite. Small talk was arduous and halting. I was nervous. Adrift. And it’s not like I was trapped in a room with complete strangers–I knew people there, one of whom remarked I seemed like a fish outta water.
Days later, after having reviewed the proverbial black box, I’ve arrived at two conclusions. First, sleep is crucial. My groggy state of mind on Saturday absolutely did not help matters. Second, I need to shore up my weaknesses with frequency. In other words, I need to continue to seek out such experiences, for better or worse. I’ve heard insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly in hopes of achieving different outcomes. Well, consider me committed, in every sense of the word.