(Hint, hint—anyone out there who has an assignment or two (or 12) is welcome to send it along...)
In other words, as my old Mom used to say, "You don't have enough to do."
So, yesterday I dragged my sorry butt out for some golf therapy. Thunderstorms were in the forecast. No deterrent. This outing was as necessary as a baby's diaper change.
Indeed, no sooner had we started, than a drizzle began to fall. By the second hole, it was real rain. We sludged on, draped in slickers.
After a 15-minute suspension of play, we resumed on Number 3. Parts of the course were a quagmire. No matter. Because by then a funny thing was happening—I was playing about as well as I can.
- Twice I found myself putting for par (an unusual event for me).
- Suddenly my drives off the tee were not only traveling in the air (I'm famous for my ground-ball shots), but they were going straight.
- On Two and Five I accurately hit the green from 120 yards out.
- Putts were going where they were aimed.
Sick? Who's sick? We were walking the course, slogging through puddles six inches deep ("standing water" in the golfer's jargon), and I'd totally forgotten I was afflicted. I wasn't even bothered by the upper arm irritation that inevitably comes with Dr. O's shoot-him-up routine.
We played to just off the green on Eight. Then the lightning appeared.
"Get me my one iron!" I called, as we cleared the course and headed for the clubhouse.
It's an old golfer's joke: Ho do you make sure you're not hit by lightning on the golf course? You hold your 1-iron to the sky. Not even God can hit a 1-iron.
Five minutes after we took refuge on the clubhouse veranda, the skies opened up. Rain in torrents. End of round.
We'd played eight holes; I'd been ScoreWorthy (double bogey or better) on six of them.
More importantly, I'd totally forgotten to be weary, in pain, depressed, grumpy, grouchy, crabby or ill-tempered.
Amazing what a little green grass, good company and physical activity will do. Clearly I've gotta do this more often.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment