Oprah's done. The Rapture's been rescheduled. Hines and Kym took the mirror ball on "DWTS," and the "Glee" kids couldn't. even. crack. Top. Ten. at. Nationals. (Those guys cannot catch a break.)
And to top everything off, one of our Washington Dairy princesses is LACTOSE INTOLERANT!
O.M.G. What's a mother to do??!!
Actually, there's only one thing to do when the world is spinning off its lunacy axis -- go hit golf balls. That brings you back to reality real fast.
I started playing golf three-now-going-on-four years ago (although I can't really count last season because of my foot surgery; that does tend to put a damper on anything involving two legs). And probably "playing" is a slight stretch since I can basically count on one hand the number of times I've been on a "big" course.
And to top everything off, one of our Washington Dairy princesses is LACTOSE INTOLERANT!
O.M.G. What's a mother to do??!!
Actually, there's only one thing to do when the world is spinning off its lunacy axis -- go hit golf balls. That brings you back to reality real fast.
I started playing golf three-now-going-on-four years ago (although I can't really count last season because of my foot surgery; that does tend to put a damper on anything involving two legs). And probably "playing" is a slight stretch since I can basically count on one hand the number of times I've been on a "big" course.
Well, maybe one hand and two fingers.
Par 3s and executive 9s are more my speed right at this point in my game.
Would I love to drive the ball more than 90-100 yards at a time? Sure. It will happen one of these decades. I'm convinced of it. But at least I don't have to worry about losing track of my ball as it lofts into outerspace on its way to the 9th hole at the Planet Mars Golf and Country Club.
Always look at the bright side, right?
But, I have to say, duffer that I am, I love golf. I love the graceful ambience of golf courses. . . the musty, woodsy, hamburgery smell of the club house. . . and the muted, almost reverent conversations around the putting green. And I love the driving range.
That being said, I've been invited to play in a charity golf tournament in a couple of weeks, so I thought it might behoove me to toddle out to the driving range to make sure I can still distinguish one end of the club from the other. My goal is to get out every other afternoon or so.
Would I love to drive the ball more than 90-100 yards at a time? Sure. It will happen one of these decades. I'm convinced of it. But at least I don't have to worry about losing track of my ball as it lofts into outerspace on its way to the 9th hole at the Planet Mars Golf and Country Club.
Always look at the bright side, right?
But, I have to say, duffer that I am, I love golf. I love the graceful ambience of golf courses. . . the musty, woodsy, hamburgery smell of the club house. . . and the muted, almost reverent conversations around the putting green. And I love the driving range.
That being said, I've been invited to play in a charity golf tournament in a couple of weeks, so I thought it might behoove me to toddle out to the driving range to make sure I can still distinguish one end of the club from the other. My goal is to get out every other afternoon or so.
The weather is making this goal rather difficult to achieve.
My first trip out to the driving range is always a little nerve-wracking.
For one thing, I don't want to look like a complete rookie. Which I am.
I want to hit every ball clean, long and straight. Which I don't.
And I don't want my fellow "rangers" to be totally unhinged by some seriously amazing displays of golf geekiness. Which they aren't.
That's because they're too busy watching their own feckless drives careen and caroom every which way across the range. And, even better, more than a few of their balls plunk themselves down right next to mine at the 90-yard mark. That's the beauty of the driving range. We are all united by a common cause.
My first trip out to the driving range is always a little nerve-wracking.
For one thing, I don't want to look like a complete rookie. Which I am.
I want to hit every ball clean, long and straight. Which I don't.
And I don't want my fellow "rangers" to be totally unhinged by some seriously amazing displays of golf geekiness. Which they aren't.
That's because they're too busy watching their own feckless drives careen and caroom every which way across the range. And, even better, more than a few of their balls plunk themselves down right next to mine at the 90-yard mark. That's the beauty of the driving range. We are all united by a common cause.
We are comrades in shortcomings. . .
We are pilgrims on a very twisted path to perfection. . .
And we are always waiting to hear the Swoosh! or Ping! of a perfect drive.
Amen.
Amen.
The Rapture caught my eye. *snnort* so will it happen here before it happens there then?
ReplyDeletespectacular day to be out on the green. have a sunny weekend xox
That looks like a gorgeous course. :) Good luck in your tournament. I, unfortunately, was born without the hand-eye coordination gene; therefore, I don't do golf (or bowling, anything with a raquet, bat, etc.) in public (to avoid traumatizing humiliation). I made a divot the size of Ben's hole the last time I tried to swing a club. (The ball was still on the tee.) I think I'd like driving the snack cart around, though. :)
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