Rambling Thursday #3

This week in golf history – I shot an 85 in a tournament with rules, witnesses and everything. The highlight was a 39 on the front nine. It was a transcendental experience. I think the last time I scored that low on nine holes was sometime in the early 2000s.

The day before the tournament, I went out as a single on a different course, just to get my mojo going. I played with a threesome – a husband and wife in their late 50s and their new son-in-law. The SIL was a strapping lad who could hit the ball 300 yards – straight into the trees. It was painful to watch.

The couple was quite charming, and I was even thinking about swapping phone numbers so we could stay in touch. Mike, as we will call him, was a good but sporadic player. I mean, aren’t we all? I think he was trying to show off for the SIL, but he kept chunking it.

As we made the turn to hole 10, it’s like something switched, and Mike became angry and violent. Every other word was f-this, f-this effing game, and I don’t mean in a low muttering way as might be heard from my lips occasionally. This was loud and scary, and then he started throwing clubs. Flinging them across the fairway.

I never said a word. Just tried to stay out of his way. As proven by my personal medical history, I am tough to kill, but I try not to make it easy for anyone.

They seemed embarrassed and scooted off quickly at the end. No time to exchange phone numbers, thank goodness. I thought about my own temperament, and while I’ve never tossed a club, I have been known to call myself horrible names and get in a funk after a poor round.

I’ve worked hard to stay calm and remember even poor shots and horrible lies are part of a game I like to play. Key words: game, play.

Maybe I should go back and find club-flinging Mike. He said he recently retired from Silicon Valley and was still wired. I know a thing or two about that, but here I am in my second year of retirement, new and improved, and ready to offer a few lessons on the lost art of chill.

Mermaids

This Washington Post article about mermaids intrigued me. A different time, a different place, and I could see me living the mermaid lifestyle. I’ve always loved the water and spent hours playing in waves at the beach, but my idea of heaven was a public pool. Or even better: the pool at a Motel 6. We didn’t have water parks like they do now. I’ve still never been to a water park, and it is sort of on my bucket list. Do they have adults-only days?

I found the picture above in an old photo album. That’s my mother’s handwriting. I grew up in southern California. Fullerton, to be specific. There was a public swimming complex called Jimmy Smith’s. The photo might have been taken there, but I’m not sure. I kind of remember the wooden structures.

By the way, they sell mermaid tails on Amazon. Of course, they do.

Hiking vs Walking

I’ve been begging Dale to join me on walks, but he always refuses. I finally asked, what would it take? He said one word. Hike. Oh, there’s a difference.

Apparently, the beautiful trails in our neighborhood don’t scratch his itch. He wants to see new stuff all the time. More wilderness. OK, I said, game on. I purchased books on local day hikes, and we’ve been going out once a week. Dale hurt his knee recently, so we’re taking it slow.

Knowing us, Dale would be happy with moderate hikes, while I am likely to focus on building our endurance so we can do harder treks. One thing we agree on. Day hikes only. Home by happy hour.

Dale has been using my cannabis balm on his knee with great success. I swear it’s the only thing that keeps my body moving. I added the recipe to a new section on the blog called Downloads. I also added a little one-pager I’m calling the Aging Badass Credo. My attempt to capture the essence of what I believe contributes to a happy and healthy retirement.