I am exhausted today. I’m not just kinda tired, and I don’t have the general blasé malaise that often accompanies a Monday morning return to the office. No, no, I am flat wore the hell out. So much so that a trip to the mailroom and back this afternoon, one floor below my office, made me yawn.
There’s a perfectly good reason for it, of course. A fun reason, even, that also explains why there have been no new posts since Friday: I played golf this weekend. And when I say played golf, I don’t mean that I beat a ball around for four hours while slurping warm beer with my buddies (although that would have been fun too). But no. In this case, it means that over the course of a day and a half, I played 54 holes of golf in 95 degree heat.
For about four months, I’d been trying to put together a quick overnight golf trip with my dad and two brothers. Our lives all resemble the same type of barely-control chaos, though, so scheduling was no small feat. May was the original target month, when it was still spring and temperatures generally could be depended upon to hover in the merely hot range of the window thermometer. But try as we might, we couldn’t make it work until this past weekend. The good thing about playing at the end of July, of course, is that with a heat index of 105 (which sits firmly in the center of the surface of the sun range of temps) the odds of having to deal with an excessively crowded golf course becomes pretty slim.
Saturday, we saw but one other golfer on the course all day. He might have been a mirage, though; he did very much resemble Santa Claus.
Sunday was no better, but at least the course we played was somewhat more mature, meaning there were trees creating shade under which to hide while waiting to hit. Now, the rumor going around is that I spent the majority of my time slicing balls to the right yesterday. Well, yes, that’s true. But the trees were to the right. Why anyone would intentionally hit into the bleached, baking sun of the fairway when so many perfectly good natural parasols occupied both sides of course is beyond me. Ok, sure, you’re not supposed to intentionally hit from the rough. But I’ve got like a 60 handicap anyway (lower numbers are better), so it’s not like I was doing my reputation permanent damage.
That’s all a complete bullshit, of course. If I tried to hit into the trees on purpose, chances are I’d drop it in the center of the course just to spite me. I’ve seen hamsters in exercise spheres with better ball control skills.
Anyway, I had a great weekend. Thirty-six (36) holes Saturday, eighteen (18) holes yesterday, and, as an added bonus, a hockey game when I got home. By the time I finally put the kids to bed last night, I resembled someone who’d been cast out of Egypt and spent 40 years wandering the desert in search of The Land of Milk and Honey.
It turns out I didn’t find the Promised Land, but if I’m lucky I might have figured out how to hit a golf ball kind of, maybe straight. I definitely learned that my body does not much appreciate so much activity over such a short span of time. In fact, my back and shoulders feel like they’re made of 2×4 and mortar. Either way, it was worth every last groaning creak I felt this morning. I would do it again in an instant.
I suspect the Puddinette might have other thoughts on the subject, though.