Tuesday, June 25, 2013
I have never been a morning person. According to my mon, when I was a toddler, I would sleep until 11:00. The summers of my junior high years, I regularly stayed up until 4:00 or 5:00 am and then slept until 11:00 or 12:00 (maybe 1:00) and then rode my bike to the pool, swam all day, played softball in the evenings, and then did it all over again.
What in the world, you may be asking, did a teenager do until 5:00 am in 1987 and 1988, before there were a gazillion cable channels, before the internet, before Playststion, Facebook, Pinterest and Candy Crush Saga? I read. Books. Lots and lots of books.
I still remember the first weekend in our apartment after JJ and I got married. It was Saturday, glorious, glorious Saturday, the day for sleeping in. Around 7:30 am, I felt a poke in the arm and could feel someone staring at me. I opened my eyes just a slit and there was JJ, all smiles. "When are you going to get up?"
What? A 7:30 wake-up poke and ear-to-ear grin is enough to push me into a murderous rage on a Saturday.
Fast forward a few (17) years and here I am, willingly getting up at 5:45. To golf.
That, in and of iteslf, is a joke. The first time my dad took me to the driving range, I was seventeen years old. We were there for 45 minutes and I connected with exactly three (THREE!) balls.
Here's how it went: Take a practice swing. Address the ball. Whiff, whiff, whiff, whiff some more. I had it in my head, after years of softball, that swinging something down into the ground was a bad idea. So, I would raise up just a little with every swing so that I wouldn't beat the club head into the ground and then I would miss the ball. I cried a lot.
So now I am getting up before the sun to play a game that makes me cry. Well, I don't cry anymore. I just swear a lot. It's cathartic.