Ace

I frequently travel on business and the more I travel, the smaller the world becomes. Shanghai was a distant dream, but after ordering a latte at the Starbucks there, I felt right at home (until I drank it, the milk was yicky, I recommend sticking with the Americano). It is common to long for home whilst sleeping in a foreign hotel room and familiar places can be soothing to the soul. I often find this sort of comfort when I visit a church in some faraway land. As a Catholic I find the ritual of Mass to be something which transports me home no matter where I am. The prayers are the same, the priests’ vestments are the same and they always seem to smell the same (in a good way).

We often associate sights, smells, sounds, and tastes with certain emotions. I know that one whiff of pipe tobacco will elicit an uncontrolled sob, making me desperately miss my Grandfather, yet the sound of a baby laughing will make me smile thinking of when my son was little. Emotional associations, impact the experience we have in any given situation, and what was one once pleasing may now be heartbreaking. And so it has been for me and the golf course.

I love golf. I love everything about it, or so I thought I did. Before my caddie moved away, we played golf pretty much every weekend. If we weren’t playing we were likely watching and I was leading the pack in our fantasy golf league. Suddenly, he was gone and simply driving by a golf course made my insides hurt. But what’s a girl to do? I mean I am not just giving up, I truly love it. But how? How can I get through the ache that sits with me every time I hit balls at my home course, every time I see my clubs lying innocently in my trunk? How the hell am I going to do this?

I can count the rounds of golf I’ve played in the past year on one hand. That is certainly not helping matters because now, in addition to the emotional stuff, I am totally rusty. I had a conversation about this subject with a co-worker and she agreed to play a round with me and grabbed another chum to join us. We decided to meet at a local course (I’ve only played there once or twice though so no weird baggage) for a mid-morning tee time on Saturday. I did have an opportunity to hit a bucket about 2 weeks before this (and swung HORRIBLY), but could not get there to hit any the night before or the morning of the round. Gulp.

I showed up at the course, met up with the girls, popped open a little can of Sophia Coppola sparkling wine (special love for the pink expandable straw), grabbed Gertie and went for it. As I took that very first swing, I realized I didn’t give a fig about the shot, I had no expectations and felt no pressure and I was exhilarated… that moment, was the very instant I reclaimed golf as my own. Yeaaaahhhh Boyyyyyy!

One isn’t such a bad number after all. You just haveta own it.

…”giddyup a boom boppa boom boppa mow mow”