NOTE TO SELF . . .

If I ever get married, I will NEVER hurt my single friends' feelings by betting -- or even joking about betting -- on which of them will get married first.

***

FORE! . . .

I am officially a menace to society.

Sprain Lake with Omma, C and some guy named Vinny who encouragingly said "nice shot" even when I was scrounging in the woods for my nice Nike ball that also curiously had "Cole Haan" printed on it. It was a perfect day for golf, albeit incredibly breezy and allergen-producing. Not to be totally gross, but one time, I bent over to address the ball on a second shot, and watery snot just dripped out of my nose onto the ground. EW! I was so distracted by my own disgustingness, I hit a perfect shot onto the green.

At the eighth hole, having spent almost two hours being totally fed up with myself and my constantly right-leaning hits, I approached my third shot with a heavy sigh. C stood about ten feet in front of me, slightly off to my right. Mom was behind me, spewing her litany of coaching tips (rendered before every shot I make, in the exact same order, before she walks off to find her own perfectly-hit ball): "Keep your eyes on the ball. Swivel your hips hard. Push your right shoulder down on the follow-through. Plant your legs. Don't dance your left leg around. You want to make a divot. Don't brush the grass. Hit with your arms, not with your hands. The ball is the bunny, so hit the bunny in the butt, not in the head. In the butt. Hit the bunny in the butt. Now, DO IT." I had the perfect form, I was set, my arm swung back, my right arm perfectly stuck to my side. Down-swing, ball strike ... "OWWWW!" and a big guffaw of laughter from Omma. I look up to see what happened.

I hit C in the wrist.

I laughed so hard, my nose stopped dripping for a while.

Of course, for the rest of the afternoon, I didn't hear the end of it. C would help me move faster by raking the sand bunkers after I whacked the ball out of them, and he would moan, "Oh, my wrist. Raking hurts my wrist." C would slice a ball and moan "Oh, my wrist. I can't hit straight because my wrist hurts." C would miss a putt and moan, "I missed that putt because my wrist hurts."

And naturally, what goes around comes around. After our round was over, C bought Omma and me hot chocolate and we sat outside reviewing our day, sipping our cocoas and unwinding. And then, a tree branch fell on me.

Oh, another Note to Self: don't let Omma and C have a conversation without me present. They almost successfully conspired today to pack me off to golf school in Florida. It's bad enough that Omma is buying me a club for my birthday. The days of cash and Barnes & Noble gift certificates are looooooong gone.

***

ZEN . . .

I can see now what the charm of golf is. Yes, people can say it's a game of leisure for fat rich folks, but as my parents and I -- and even C -- are none of the above, I don't subscribe to that theory of jealousy.

Instead, I find golf -- especially these days, because I'm not particularly skilled at it yet -- to be a very therapeutic way to spend one's day. For one thing, the weather is usually beautiful when I go out. After all, I'm not SO loving the game that I would purchase hundreds of dollars worth of rain gear and brave the elements to be really bad at golf while soaking wet. But on a holiday like today, I know that I would normally sleep or loll about in bed until noon, then crawl out of my room to eat and plop myself in front of the TV before running out to go grocery shopping and squint into the fading sunlight. What a waste of space I would have otherwise been!

For another thing, being humbled is good for me, and I know it. I'm bad at relatively few things, and pretty good at most things I attempt. The counterpoint to knowing this about myself is that I rarely attempt things at which I am not confident I will be pretty good or great. Golf is an anomaly. I can hit a perfect drive off of one tee, then stroll over to the next one and shank it badly to the right. I can have perfect form and an accurate back-swing, but miss the ball completely on the down-swing. I could feel awkward and tight and totally off-balance, but land my ball on the green mere feet from the tee. A club could feel like butter in my hands one minute, then 70 yards later, feel like a dead steel weight. Or better yet, I could be playing with someone as good as Omma, and she could be shanking balls left and right, and losing balls in the woods. It's such a strange game. Practice will sometimes make perfect, but one never knows; I never know. And so I can never get too cocky, but neither can I give up just because I'm frustrated, not with six more holes to go and no easy way off the course. If nothing else, golf will discipline me. Not too much, but just enough.

And of course, it's just fun to soak in some Vitamin D, eat Korean finger food, feel the breeze on my face, and yak with people with whom I love spending time. Of course, I can't speak for C enjoying spending time with me anymore. After all, I shanked him in the wrist.

Oh dear, I'm still laughing.