If most business is really conducted on the golf course, I guess I’m destined to be an editor all my life.
I just returned from a long vacation during which I played two rounds of golf. That’s twice the amount I played last year, and about twice the amount I aspire to play in any 12-month period.
Why? For starters, I stink (actually, I play somewhat worse than “stink,” but this is a family blog). I shot 118 the first round (on a really tough and unfamiliar course) and 112 the second (on a familiar course but using borrowed clubs).
For the record, I wasn’t always such an embarrassment. But spending five hours in the sun chasing a little white ball isn’t my idea of a good time. I already have enough skin damage for a lifetime. A childhood of swimming and lifeguarding, plus having various spots removed from my shoulders, has left me with a deep aversion to skin cancer. (Whether you’re good-looking or not, it’s nice to be intact.)
The irony is, as much as I dislike golf, I love golf courses. I spent the first month of my post-college “career” on the links. Not playing, mind you. I trimmed the greens and raked the sand traps. In some ways that episode helped get me where I am today: Getting up in time to be on the course by the time the sun came up (and the startling low pay) convinced me there were other, better ways to earn a living. I still get excited by the smell of the course, though. Until I tee off, that is.
Come next summer, I’ll be ready for my annual round. And if you think you’re worse than me, I’ll be happy to play. But we’ll bet on your shots.