WHY DO I TORTURE MYSELF?

Just returned from a two-day Customer Appreciation Golf Boondoggle at Château Élan in Braselton, Georgia. Golf in Georgia is an iffy proposition during the summer months, thanks to occasional pop-up thunderstorms, high humidity, and oppressive heat. And to someone with sweaty palms like me, this means summer golf can be downright obnoxious. Still, it’s not Texas, and sometimes we get beautiful summer days with low humidity... and that’s what we had here after Wednesday night’s violent cold front.

So, Thursday afternoon and Friday morning were devoted to what the techies call an “impact effects seminar.” You could not ask for better weather. You could, however, ask that all the years you have practiced this stinking Scottish torture be good for something. But I’ve been making that request for years, and so far, the Big Guy isn’t acting as though He plans to grant it. If I’m getting off the tee, I can’t putt to save my life, and if I’m draining 20-footers, I’m whacking banana balls into Mirkwood or the Grand Canyon. Foo.

I play my pestilential game
Without a single speck of shame.
I hack my way around the course
With absolutely no remorse.
The fairways, I have rarely seen —
I struggle once I’m on the green.
My drives will hook, or maybe slice.
They do not follow my advice.
My shots all seek the woods and water.
They do not travel where they orter.
O, I’d forgo all worldly goods
If I could play like Tiger Woods
For just one game. ’Tis not to be;
I guess I’ll have to play like me.

Oh, well. The meals were excellent (and for once, dinner was accompanied by a wine that was not produced at Château Élan, thank Gawd) - and the customers mostly behaved themselves. Didn’t lose too many balls in the woods, lakes, and ravines. Got home just in time to beat the traffic. And now it’s Friday, late afternoon. Aaaaahhhh, weekend.